221B
by KCS
Summary: CHALLENGE: Write a ficlet of exactly 221 words, the last word of which must start with the letter 'B'. 168 - Sherlock Holmes is a man of many talents, not the least of which is an indirect way of showing respect and gratitude.
1. Back

**A/N: I'm baaaack! Anybody miss me? No? Bummer.**

**Anyhow, I've been flat on my back for five days with the worst sinus infection EVER to lay grips on a miserable amateur author – 102 fever almost constantly, coughing and choking, the works (yeah, not a really comforting thing when you're writing near-death by choking in **_**Vows**_**…eeep!). Sooo, anyhow, I am back at last!**

**And being able to do practically nothing except sniffle and listen to the BBC SH adaptations for five days (couldn't watch Granada since I couldn't tell which of the two screens I was seeing was the real one) I started gathering ideas for this writing exercise I came up with using the familiar '221b'.**

* * *

_Challenge: Write a ficlet of exactly 221 words, the last word of which must start with the letter 'B'._

_Anyone care to join me in the exercise, feel free to!_

* * *

"You're late."

"Couldn't get Mrs. Cabernet out of my consulting room," I growled, collapsing wearily into the chair across the table from Sherlock Holmes.

"Who?"

"You wouldn't remember her. Stubborn old girl, insists she has everything from chronic pneumonia to consumption to today, a broken leg."

"What was it really?"

"Hypochondria. Sherry, please," I told the white-coated waiter who came to take my order.

Holmes chuckled lightly.

"I don't remember your practice being so busy in the old days, Watson."

"That's probably because I lost half my patients to Anstruther every time I went dashing off with you to heaven knows where," I replied dryly, scanning the menu quickly and giving my order, finally sitting back with a sigh.

Holmes scanned me carefully with that piercing grey gaze I had missed so badly in the last three years.

"You've been running yourself into the ground, old man."

"Perhaps," I sighed, " but you said yourself that work is the best antidote to sorrow."

"Well, yes, but not at the expense of your health, Watson!"

I glanced at the grey gaze and saw nothing but concern.

"Well, until two days ago I had no care whatsoever for my health, I shall freely admit," I replied tiredly.

"I've a solution for that, Watson, if you're willing."

Five days later, I was moving back.


	2. Bach

"Allow me to get that for you, Doctor."

"No, thank you, I have it."

"It is no trouble –"

"I am perfectly fine, Holmes, thank you."

I glared at the obstinate man.

"Quite to the contrary, Doctor, you are obviously in a good deal of pain from that shoulder, though you disguise the fact extraordinarily well."

"So I thought," the man said ruefully, setting the boxes down with a resounding thud, his face red and breathing with difficulty.

"Only someone as observant as myself would have noticed it. Now, let me get those boxes before you kill yourself. Up to your bedroom?"

* * *

"Do you mind if I have this corner for my chemicals?"

"Not at all – may I take that shelf for my books?"

"Certainly. Watch those beakers, their contents are volatile."

"Sorry."

"Are you a writer by any chance, Doctor?"

He flushed with some embarrassment.

"What makes you ask?"

"Well, you seem to possess more books and journals than an ordinary man has vests and cravats!"

He chuckled and merely stacked his journals on his desk.

* * *

"Ah, is that your violin?"

"Have you ever seen a genuine Stradivarius before, Doctor?"

"I can't say that I have. It's certainly beautiful," the man replied, looking at the glossy finish with admiration. I put the instrument to my shoulder.

"Do you like Bach?"


	3. Brother

He has that look in his eyes again, I can see it now from my seat across from Mycroft. My brother starts into a deducing game with me but my mind is barely on the mental exercise, my eyes not on the street in front of us but rather on him as he stands there against the wall, watching us.

I saw that look the first time I introduced him to Mycroft, the first time he watched us together those many years ago, that slightly saddened glance. And I know why now.

I was puzzled then, and did not fully realize until that business with the watch – did not even know until then that my dear Watson even _had_ a brother.

_Had_ being in the definite past tense, for his own brother had met a rather sordid demise earlier that year, and the fact was still an open wound then, as well I knew. Now that wound has healed, but the scar remains.

And now I can see that his mind is once again traversing a road of the past, far away in years gone by, walking down a well-worn lane of memory in the green countryside of Scotland, wishing for things to be different.

I vow more determinedly to endeavor to be a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.


	4. Better

DR. JOHN WATSON 221 BAKER STREET LONDON

SHERLOCK HOLMES ILL HOTEL DULONG STOP REFUSES TO SEE PHYSICIAN STOP PLEASE COME AT ONCE STOP INSPECTOR RECHARDE LYONS POLICE

I dropped the wire with a curse – I should have gone with him on that case.

It had promised to be a long one, however (had been three weeks since he had left London) and my newly established practice did not allow for such an uncertain prolonged absence.

He probably had not slept or eaten in the last three weeks without me there to perform what he termed 'infernal nagging'; I had no doubt that he had collapsed from mental and physical exhaustion as he had in the past so often. Curse the man and his iron pride and constitution.

After hurried preparations I left London that very day, and the next evening I entered a modest hotel room and scuffed through a litter of telegrams to where my friend lay on the bed, ghastly pale. But his tired eyes lit up with a smile when they saw me.

"I knew I should have come with you, Holmes – you're lucky you did not have a complete mental collapse!" I growled, after finding nothing seriously amiss.

"Yes, I'm glad to see you too, my dear Watson," he replied dryly.

"How are you feeling now?"

"Better."


	5. Breathing

_Obviously, this is a gap-filler from Vows Made in Storms._

A loud clap of thunder suddenly awakens me with its vehemence, and a bright flash of lightning illuminates my stateroom in clear detail through the tiny porthole in the wall. I can hear the rain drumming against the wooden bow of the steamer and the waves crashing outside.

The multiple sights and sounds for a moment disorient my mind and cause my senses to muddle together.

Where…what…

Then suddenly the events of the day and evening – the last _three_ days and evenings – flash into my mind with the clarity that the lightning did into my cabin not two minutes ago. I hastily arise, light the gas, and glance at my pocket watch. Half-past four in the morning, and the storm outside is still raging as it has been for the last ten hours.

That nagging fear pricking at the back of my mind will not give me a moment's rest, and I throw on my jacket and shoes in preparation to silence it.

I tiptoe to the stateroom next to mine and unlock it with the key I still hold in my pocket, opening the door and slipping into the cabin on noiseless feet.

And then I stand there, listening, and feel the fear wash away like one of the waves crashing outside the porthole.

Listening to his untroubled, steady breathing.

* * *


	6. Broke

_SMASH!_

"Uh-oh."

This descriptive vociferation was followed by a string of assorted oaths that I assumed Holmes had picked up in his work among the lower of the criminal classes.

I did not look up from my writing. Not even when I heard various clinks and tinklings that indicated something had smashed indeed, into multiple pieces. The growls that punctuated these sounds seemed to bear out that theory.

"Watson."

I continued writing, chewing thoughtfully on the end of my pencil, searching for just the correct word…

"Watson?"

I had grown very accustomed over the years to working despite all odd noises and background chatter – one _had_ to when living with Sherlock Holmes – and in consequence found it rather easy to ignore his blathering.

That is, until he bellowed loud enough to be heard on the Baker Street Underground.

"WATSON!"

I jumped, the pencil flying from my startled hand, and finally looked up at Sherlock Holmes, who was in front of his chemical table looking down at a gooey red mess that was slowly dripping onto the rug.

"What the devil –"

"Easy, Watson, it'll eat a hole in your shoes! Would you be so kind as to help me get it cleaned up before it starts destroying the carpet?"

"Holmes –"

"Well it wasn't my fault that those infernal test-tubes broke!"


	7. Bullet

One bullet.

One bullet gave him to me – one well-placed shot from a Jezail rifle was what sent him back to London and, inadvertently, into my life. One bullet gave me a biographer, fellow-lodger, and - most importantly - a friend.

The truest friend that ever a man could ask for. My dear Watson is everything I am not and probably never will be, no matter how badly I should wish to be – courageous, compassionate, and unquestioningly loyal even when I deserve no less than stern rejection.

And although at first I rejected him as being too risky, too volatile a thing for my scientific, controlled nature, at last that man had penetrated my shields and awakened some returning spark within my soul.

One bullet gave me that.

And tonight, one bullet came close to taking that away from me.

Evans had already killed four men, and had he taken time to aim more carefully…

I shiver at the thought, turning back toward the bed where he lies now, his face relaxed in sleep under the influence of the morphine. As I pull the blankets up round him he moves restlessly for a moment before slipping back into unconsciousness, and I hastily back away, not wanting him to know I was here.

It had just been too close tonight.

One bullet.


	8. Bragging

I was immersed in a fine adventure novel one rainy morning when I was interrupted by a burst of compulsive laughter from where Sherlock Holmes sat cross-legged on the floor.

Which I promptly ignored – Holmes had the very annoying habit of muttering and making noises to himself while dissecting the newspapers. He had been known to hold entire conversations with himself, completely arguing both sides of an issue before resolving it, much to my intense amusement.

However, I had no desire to become spectator in his multi-faceted personality's eccentricities at this moment, and I therefore ignored a second spurt of snickering as well.

"Hee. Watson, listen to this. _The credit for the capture of the McDougall gang was due entirely to the efficient police methods of one of the Yard's finest, Inspector Giles Lestrade, who said in a confidential statement to the press that…"_

I set down my book with a sigh and patiently waited for him to finish.

"Isn't it gorgeous?"

"Lestrade _was_ right about the criminal's identity, Holmes."

"Poppycock. Lucky guess. It was obvious from the first that McDougall was our man, based upon careful observation of…"

I rolled my eyes and went back to my novel.

"I of course saw through the whole affair from the first."

"Do stop bragging, Holmes."

"I'm not bragging!"

"Norbury, Holmes. You're bragging."


	9. Belief

"Yes, some of us are a little too inclined to be cock-sure, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade.

The man's insolence was maddening.

"Some of us including yourself, Inspector!" I shot back hotly at the Yarder's insufferable attitude.

The ferret-faced detective's eyebrows shot sky-high, as did my companion's.

"Well, you must admit, Doctor, that all along I have been right and Mr. Holmes has been very wrong. You don't like being beaten any more than the rest of us, I understand, but you have been this time, gentlemen – you're as wrong as wrong can get about young McFarlane, and I'll see him hang because I'm right!"

"How dare you!"

"Watson, stop it."

"Don't get upset, Doctor, we're all entitled to make mistakes, even arrogant private detectives," Lestrade went on, smirking toward my friend.

"He hasn't made a mistake, Lestrade – and even if so, Holmes's mistakes would be a dashed sight more intelligent than your inane babbling!"

Thoroughly in a temper, I took a step toward the shrinking official.

"Get out of here!"

Lestrade's mouth opened and shut foolishly and then he turned and ran with his tail between his legs.

"Watson. What the devil was that all about."

"Just tell me why you're sure McFarlane's innocent."

"I'm _not_ sure!"

"_**What**_?"

"My dear Watson, someday you will have to stop this unwavering, trusting belief."


	10. Bees

"Your room all right?"

"Oh, yes, quite. Lovely view of the sea."

"Yes, I thought you might like it. Anything you need?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Excellent! Then come with me."

I set my bag down on the sturdy bed in the little bedroom and then followed my companion outside the cottage. The spring breeze was scented with flowers as well as salt from the nearby ocean, and the noise of various birds not native to London filled my ears as we followed a path of rough sandstone round the back of the house.

"This really is lovely, after the smog of London," I had to admit.

"Mmm? Oh, yes, I suppose it is. But come along, Watson, we only have the weekend and I want to show you everything!"

I chuckled in amusement – some things never changed, Holmes's impatience being one of them.

We stopped, and I stared in some amusement as he proudly indicated his greatest treasure – the many large white hives standing in a neat row along one end of his back yard. A low humming filled our ears as what appeared to be thousands of the little insects swarmed round the area, which was surrounded with brightly-coloured flowers.

Finally I found my voice and turned to my friend, struggling desperately to keep a straight face.

_"Bees??"_


	11. Back II

_"Achoo!"_

"Bless you. Here."

"Thanks."

I watched as he took the handkerchief and applied it to his nose, noting with concern that his face was rather flushed.

"You shouldn't have followed me; you're not well enough."

"Like I was going to let you walk into that den by yourself, really Holmes – _achoo_!"

"Bless you."

"And I only have a cold."

"Yes, and your sneezing brought the whole house down upon us!"

"I couldn't help it!"

"You should have stayed in Baker Street!"

"If I hadn't had my stick with me they would have beaten us both to death – you should be _glad_ I came instead of – _achoo_!"

I stopped suddenly, seeing his face twist with pain as he hastily turned away from me, swaying unsteadily on his feet.

"Are you ill?"

"No."

This was spoken through gritted teeth, and now that we were under a street lamp I could see he was clutching his side with his good arm.

"You're hurt – that last kick you got! You told me you were fine!" I exclaimed, taking his uninjured arm and letting him lean on me.

"When you're getting slapped back into consciousness amid the sounds of a half-dozen thugs following you is _not_ the time for a full medical report, Holmes!"

I sighed. "Why did you follow me?"

"I'm watching your back."


	12. Blush

The rain poured down the roof behind me in a slosh as I shut the door, shivering from the wet that had soaked my clothing – I'd forgotten my umbrella.

That supposed thirty-minute sick call had turned into a five-hour bed watch; it was now after midnight and I was completely exhausted. I set my bag in the hall and hung my wet coat up, seeing that there was an unfamiliar hat, umbrella, and coat there. Holmes had company.

No, no, Holmes never had _company_. Holmes had a client.

I paused outside the sitting room door to listen for a moment, to see if Holmes needed me in there with his client or if I could go to bed; I wanted the latter.

"Where's the Doctor?"

Inspector Lestrade's voice. Good, then I could go to bed.

"Out with a patient – he was supposed to be back long ago, poor chap."

I had turned away to stumble up to my room when I heard the topic switch.

"Nice story, his most recent one in the _Strand_, Holmes."

"Yes, actually, I thought it was rather well done myself."

I stared at the door in disbelief.

"But don't ever tell him I said so, Lestrade."

"Goodnight, Holmes," I sang, suddenly poking my head into the room with a grin.

He had the grace to blush.


	13. Bachelorhood

"Are you sure we haven't forgotten anyone, John?"

"I don't believe we have, darling, neither of us has any immediate family so it's not an overly long list."

My fiancée looked up as she folded our wedding guest list with an air of finality, her blue eyes dancing as they looked at me, the gaze enough to make my heart melt further than it already had.

Mary glanced at the closed bedroom door.

"Did he agree to –"

"Yes," I said with a smile, "I doubt that he'll take the best man's privilege and kiss the bride, however – don't expect it."

My wife-to-be laughed lightly as she stood to leave. I rose reluctantly, and we paused by the sitting room door.

"See you for dinner tomorrow?"

"I shall be there," I replied, leaning down as she raised her face to mine in a kiss. For an enchanted moment we held that position…

"Watson, have you seen the Drake forgery file anywhere, I – _ergh_!"

Holmes's voice broke off suddenly in a combination yelp and gasp. I heard a muttered "Pardon me" before he scuttled hastily back into his bedroom and slammed the door once more.

I could not restrain my laughter, and Mary joined me as we both glanced at the closed door.

I grinned, leaning down once again.

"Eternal bachelorhood."


	14. Brave

I snapped awake with a start as the train's whistle sounded shrilly.

"Sorry for falling asleep on you, Holmes, I –"

I broke off suddenly, choking as a thick, sickening wave of rampant grief swept over me like a flood to drown my heart. He wasn't there beside me.

He never would be again.

I was alone, on my way back to face the London he so loved without him, the duty of informing the world he was gone resting upon my shoulders.

I slumped in my seat, tears blurring my vision as I stared brokenly out the window of the train as we neared Victoria Station.

It had been six days already.

Six days, and the world still went on? How could it? How could _I_?

I shoved my way through the crowd of newspapermen that assaulted me wanting a lurid story, as I exited the compartment, running for a cab before I broke down completely.

Within thirty minutes I was closing the door of my house. Mary came running from the back, her big blue eyes filled with nothing but loving sympathy as I swept her into my arms and buried my face in her silky hair.

When she spoke, it was not with empty platitudes but with soldierly advice.

"John, Mr. Holmes would want you to be brave."


	15. Black

Black.

I have never liked the color, for it symbolises too many things over which I have no control…death, grief, sin, wickedness…and I very much despise anything that might control me rather than I it.

I have always hated the color black.

And I hate it more now, after seeing him in it.

How many months has my dear Watson had to wear that color in the last three years because of the cruel hand Fate has decided to deal him? I knew he would have mourned me as a brother, and now…seeing him just now, only recently transitioning from complete mourning to partial, shook me more than I should like to admit.

I was in Park Lane, inspecting the site of the Ronald Adair murder and making final plans as to the evening's events, preparatory to doing what I had been looking forward to for three years – namely, telling Watson I was not dead after all – when I had seen him, walking along the pavement and glancing up at the house as I was.

No doubt, his association with me had made him interested in crime, but that was not what drew my attention; rather his apparel, the deep mourning of one who has lost the dearest thing in the world to him.

I have always hated the color black.


	16. Birthday

_This one is for PGF, who gave me the idea._

* * *

"Um, thank you, Watson, but – what _is_ it?"

I scratched my head, trying to remember what the clerk had told me.

"I think it's called a deerstalker, Holmes."

"A what?"

"Deerstalker. I suppose deriving its name from hunting –"

"Yes, yes, I can make that deduction for myself, Watson. But – my dear fellow, whatever possessed you to get me a _hat_ for my birthday?"

Sherlock Holmes had unwrapped the package and was now inspecting the item with a deal of interest.

"You've been blathering on for weeks now, Holmes, about how you have no comfortable country wear that suits your peculiarly shaped head," I reminded him.

Holmes looked dubiously at the close-fitting headgear with its earflaps fastened upon its top, glancing from it back to me.

"If you don't like it, I can take it back," I said, a trifle disappointedly.

"No, no, Watson," he said hastily, catching a glimpse of my fallen countenance, "it is perfect. See?"

Holmes hastily put the hat on and grinned at me expectantly. I stifled a snicker.

"How does it look?"

"I'll take it back."

"No! I like it!"

"Holmes!"

"I like it – you are not to touch it, Watson!"

I moaned. "What have I done?"

Holmes snickered with glee and hopped over to look at himself in the mirror.

I sighed.

"Then Happy Birthday."


	17. Blazes

"Oh, blazes!"

"Whatever happened to that razor blade you like to keep in your shirt cuff, Holmes?"

"I'm not _wearing_ that particular shirt today, Watson, I had no idea our quarry would tie us up and leave us in an abandoned house! What kind of a Doctor doesn't carry some kind of sharp instrument on his person, anyway?"

"I suppose you'd like me to carry a scalpel in my trouser pocket at all times?"

"It would have been rather handy right now."

"And deucedly painful if I sat the wrong way."

"Small trifles."

"Oh, do be quiet, you're not helping anything, Holmes."

"This is all your fault, Watson. Can't you reach those knots at all?"

"I'm trying – and it is most certainly _not_ my fault! You're the observing machine, you should have seen the footprints in the dust inside the door!"

"I was listening for our quarry, not looking at my feet!"

"Small trifles, Holmes."

"Oh, blazes. Haven't you made any progress?"

"Not yet – my fingers are nearly numb. Can't you try instead?"

"No, my fingers are _completely_ numb. I say, do you smell that?"

"Uh-oh."

"Smoke. They've set the place afire!"

"Oh, blazes."

"Not funny, Watson!"

"It wasn't meant to be funny! You'd better pray this knot loosens up in the next five minutes…Holmes, the floor's getting hot!"

"Oh, blazes!"


	18. Boxing

_Note to readers: I DID have this done before PGF published her boxing fic - I swear it and she can attest to it. I HAD IT DONE ALREADY, I don't steal from other writers...specially if they have my email addresses like she does..._

* * *

"No, no, Watson. Keep leaving your chin open like that and you're liable to get knocked from here to Euston Station. Keep your fists up."

"Holmes, this is insanity!"

"It might save your life one day. Keep that left up, Watson! Remember the Davies-Stockton case? If I hadn't managed to neutralise the three men holding you, you'd have been killed right there."

"You've never let me forget that."

"I'm only bringing it up as an example of how skill can triumph over numbers. Now, try again."

I sighed, bringing my guard up again as Holmes circled me, continuing his attempt to teach me some boxing techniques. I had endured my share of fisticuffs, but my success was due more to experience and bulk than actual skill.

He jabbed half-heartedly at my head, allowing me to clumsily block, then swung in a sweeping right. This I managed to block and send a light blow of my own following.

I dodged another jab, trying to return it, failing to see the blow aimed at my face that sent me sprawling.

"All right, old fellow? I thought you were going to block it," Holmes asked worriedly, extending a hand to me as I got slowly to my feet, rubbing my jaw gingerly.

"Why couldn't we do something _normal_ together, like chess, Holmes? Why boxing?"


	19. Bored

I sent my younger brother a pointed warning as I saw him mutter something to Watson behind his glass, sending them both sniggering like a couple of immature schoolboys.

Sherlock glared back at me, cocking an eyebrow as if to say _I didn't want to be here in the first place_ and daring me to make him behave. I sighed; he really hadn't changed in these years. I still remembered the numerous times I had kicked him under the table for making abrasive comments at social gatherings when we were children.

How I wished that invitation from the potentate had not included him. He was bad enough alone, but in the company of the only man closer to him than I, he was doubly horrid. Honestly, they were a couple of children.

And while I was forever in the Doctor's debt for bringing Sherlock out of his morbid shell, I definitely wished they both would stop that snickering. I watched wearily as my brother rudely pointed at an enormous woman in a feather boa, muttering something that made the Doctor smirk.

I did not even want to know.

And as Watson whispered something back that made my brother's pale face turn a bright cherry, it took no great deduction to perceive they were _not_ a good combination when they were bored.


	20. Burn

I watched anxiously as hazel eyes flickered open, registering panic as he struggled – but then they fastened upon my face and the franticness softened into relief and trust before they closed again.

A moment later they re-opened, traveling round the room, taking in the familiar surroundings before finally coming to rest once more upon me where I sat close.

"Do I want to know what happened?" he asked weakly.

"You got hit with a chair."

"What, again?"

I broke into a laugh of pure relief – if he could make a joke like that then it was not as bad as I had feared.

The feeble wry smile he had given me widened as I laughed, relighting my pipe with a more steady hand.

"You do seem to get in harm's way over-much of late."

He snorted, then winced in pain.

"Concussion, I'm assuming?"

"I've told you, never assume – deduce, Watson."

"I really couldn't care less about your parlour tricks at this moment, Holmes."

"Ooh, testy are we?"

"You're rather ungrateful for someone who'd have gotten his head sliced off if I hadn't tackled that Neston chap before the ceiling fell on me."

"I've told you, never leave your back unguarded."

"That's rather hard to do when I'm watching yours, dear fellow."

I felt my eyes sting – that confounded pipe smoke burned.


	21. Boswell

"Holmes…"

"Don't even say it, Watson."

"But –"

"Oh, be quiet."

We walked along for some minutes, looking round at the towering trees and lovely flowers, studying the beauty of nature's evening.

After fifteen minutes I tried again.

"Holmes?"

"What."

"Are you certain –"

"I already told you, yes, Watson! Now for the love of heaven drop it!"

Miffed, I turned my attention back to the birds above us, chirping merrily as the sun set in a blaze of brilliant red and orange.

My leg was beginning to throb with the unaccustomed exercise, and it was not long before I began to limp. Holmes was deep in thought, his brow furrowed, sharp eyes glancing about us at everything we passed, and never paid a bit of attention to me.

That is, until I began to lag behind a step or two, the limp becoming more pronounced. My companion turned just as I paused, grimacing.

Casting a nervous glance round us, Holmes took my arm and led me to a fallen tree, where I was very glad to sit down and rest. He seated himself stiffly beside me.

"Well?"

"All right, go ahead and say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you were going to say, Watson."

I snickered, grinning at my dismayed companion.

"Looks like you're lost period, with or _without_ your Boswell."


	22. Both

_Missing scene from __**A Brother Noble**__._

* * *

"Thank you, Tavish. You've been most helpful," I said, shaking the Scotsman's hand and bidding him farewell.

I would be glad to get back to London – Whitehall was most distressed by my absence.

I entered the suite's sitting room and saw that the bedroom door was ajar, Sherlock and the Doctor nowhere to be seen. I walked over to the door and halted, listening to an odd conversation.

"It's not a good idea – your ribs aren't healed yet."

"You're just scared I'll beat you, Holmes."

"I? Even with a bad leg I could still beat you any day!"

"Could not."

"I certainly could!"

"Prove it!"

Then suddenly I heard a soft thud and a muffled cry followed by another.

I threw the door open worriedly and stepped in, intent upon stopping my idiot brother and his friend from whatever strain they were intent upon performing so soon after their injuries.

Suddenly there was a blur as my brother ducked behind me as a shield and I was hit in the face with something soft and fluffy.

"Oomph – what the –"

I batted the object away from my face, scowling at the Doctor who was trying, unsuccessfully, to look innocent. I heard my brother snicker behind me, and I rolled my eyes.

"Honestly, Sherlock. A _pillow fight_? _**How**_ old are you both?"


	23. Brigade

_All right, I admit it, I was watching Granada's SOLI just before I wrote this..._

* * *

"Watson."

"Hmm?"

"Do put down the novel for a minute, old chap? This is reaching the crucial stage now, and you did say you wanted to see the reaction?"

I slapped the book down on the desk and seated myself eagerly at the table across from Sherlock Holmes, who was carefully measuring some bubbling concoction into a test tube.

"If this works, Watson, then Ferguson definitely is our man. Now observe closely."

Holmes bent over the tube, picking up a large phial and glancing at me. I nodded and held my breath, awaiting the results of the experiment.

My friend tipped the contents of the tube into the phial.

And then hastily dropped the container as a massive cloud suddenly billowed upward and began to spread throughout the room. I choked on the poisonous smoke and dragged Holmes over to the window which I hastily flung open.

Coughing from deep within my lungs, wheezing in a breath of foggy London air, I glanced at my gasping companion, who was clearing his throat of the noxious fumes.

"Is that what was supposed to happen?"

"Er, I don't think so, Watson. My apologies."

A sudden ringing floated up to us on the spring wind, and I smirked.

"Well done, Holmes."

"Oh, be quiet. Who was the idiot that called out the fire brigade?!"

* * *


	24. Bed

Close to panic now, I once more struggled futilely to release myself.

I am not a fearful man, but I daresay every man has a right to be afraid when threatened with certain, violent death. I will not deny that I was no exception.

My mind wandered briefly back to Baker Street, where I had left Holmes in the grips of a nasty influenza. I had put him to bed with next to no fuss, proving how ill he really was, and had left the flat to fetch some medicine.

Scarcely had I left the apothecary's when I'd been attacked – and now was facing a revenge-bent maniac in the basement of a nearby house. As he started toward me, pistol in hand, I swallowed hard and braced myself for death.

Only to hear _two_ reports, ringing out simultaneously.

I jerked up to see a familiar figure standing in the doorway with Inspector Lestrade. Holmes's face was flushed and a sheen of sweat stood upon his pale forehead as he stood leaning against the wall, a smoking revolver in his trembling hand.

He glanced at the body upon the floor and staggered over, setting me free.

I jumped up just in time to catch him as he collapsed.

"Holmes, you shouldn't –"

"Watson. Did you really expect me to stay in bed?"


	25. Basil

_Ok, I couldn't resist this one, not after Pompey paved the way with her dog chapter..._

* * *

I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, absently fingering the model ship that sat on the table beside me and shooting glares at the sitting room door.

I had been chased from my sanctuary by an outraged landlady, who was intent upon replacing the drapes. She had not been appreciative when I told her that I was likely to ruin them within a week anyhow and she was better off cooking our supper.

Women.

Bah.

Suddenly I was jolted by a shriek piercing the air. I jumped for the door.

I heard a crash upstairs and then Watson's pounding footsteps. We reached the sitting room at the same instant and stood there, staring at our landlady.

Mrs. Hudson was standing upon my armchair, gazing at Watson's desk with something akin to terror.

"Mrs. Hudson, what the devil!"

"Oh, Doctor – there's –"

"It's just a mouse, Mrs. Hudson!" I said in annoyance, looking at the little creature sitting atop Watson's books.

"I do have a name, Mr. Holmes!"

I felt my jaw drop, as the squeaky voice could only have come from one source. Watson muttered something about needing a drink, and I turned to look at the rodent.

"And – what might that be?"

Why was I talking to a mouse?

The creature sat up and sniffed at me before answering.

"Basil."


	26. Basil II

I clutched the edge of the mantel, fumbling for the familiar comfort of my pipe.

"Perhaps you should sit down, Mr. Holmes – I believe my colleague Dr. Dawson would agree with me, you look a trifle unwell."

I stared at the mouse, who sniffed at me and drew himself up to his full height – about five inches – and then reached out a tiny paw behind him and hauled another, stockier mouse from under one of Watson's journals which had fallen over upon its side.

"There's – two of you?" I gasped.

What was I saying?

I staggered over to my desk, unlocking the drawer and hauling out my Moroccan case. The clasp was rusty with disuse, and the velvet inside completely dry. No, I had not used the drug…

Why was I seeing talking mice then?

"Dr. Watson, I believe a drink might be in order for Mr. Holmes," I heard a tiny voice advise, not that of the taller mouse but of his companion.

Watson choked, spluttering at being addressed directly by a rodent, and hastily handed a glass to me.

"It's impossible," I muttered.

"Not so, Mr. Holmes. But if we're going to discuss matters intelligently, don't you suppose we should be formally introduced?"

Now it was my turn to splutter.

I took a deep breath as the mouse began.


	27. Basil III

"No, no, no," I muttered, leaning against the mantel after this…_mouse_…had introduced himself and his colleague.

A mouse, introducing himself.

No.

"It's impossible."

"What is, Mr. Holmes?"

"That I am standing here talking to a mouse!"

The little chap gave a high-pitched squeak that I assumed was the rodent equivalent to a laugh.

"Yes, it _is_ impossible as you state it. Therefore, you must have stated it wrongly," he shot back at me. "Once you eliminate the impossible and nothing remains, then the impossible now becomes only improbable."

I saw Watson's mouth drop open.

"_Priory School_ – can you read, too?" he asked quickly, recognising the maxim from his story.

"Of course."

"Watson," I remonstrated in dismay, as he crept closer and bent down, looking at the two creatures on the desk.

"Yes, indeed, Doctor – we've read all your stories, even copied some of them into books small enough for us," the mouse went on, looking up at Watson with sharp beady eyes.

"Really?"

"Watson, for heaven's sake!"

"Mr. Holmes, why are you so afraid to believe your senses?"

I glared at the mouse, who again gave that little squeaking laugh, echoed by the other creature beside him – what had Basil said his name was…

Wait a moment, I was NOT going to refer to them by names! They were rodents!

Bah.


	28. Basil IV

"May I ask you a question?" Watson requested curiously.

"Certainly," the mouse replied, perking up his ears.

"Why are you in our sitting room?"

"I must admit to being a music lover, Dr. Watson," the creature said, "and I was very much enjoying the _Lieder_ Mr. Holmes was playing a few minutes ago."

At this, I leant down despite myself.

"How can you recognize…what am I saying."

I straightened up in disgust – talking music to a mouse, honestly.

The rodents squeaked again in those high-pitched laughs.

"Basil and I were sitting behind the drapes when your estimable landlady came in and chased Mr. Holmes out," the shorter mouse spoke up. "We got caught and only made your desk, Doctor, before she started that infernal shrieking."

I had forgotten about the woman – she had taken herself off apparently, scared of the mice.

"Half a moment, how did you know –"

"That it was your desk?" Basil replied.

Watson nodded.

"Simple deduction. It is evident from the journals and yellow-backed novels here, one of which almost flattened my colleague, that this desk is yours, _not_ Mr. Holmes's."

I stared at the rodent, whose whiskers twitched in an approximation of a smirk.

"May I ask _you_ something, Doctor?"

"Certainly!"

"Would you request your landlady to remove the mousetraps she set along the hall baseboards?"


	29. Better II

_My Dear Doctor:_

_I was most gratified to see that you and brother mine were indeed on time for the ceremony honouring your late brother, and that you both actually behaved yourselves as becoming such an occasion. My congratulations to you, Doctor, and to your brother, for your service to the Crown._

_But wishing you felicitations upon the reception of this honour was not the reason for this missive. _

_I should like to express in the most personal manner possible for a man who has had little practice in such matters my deepest gratitude to you, Watson. This investigation was nearly fatal to you, physically and emotionally._

_Yet despite this, you kept always at the fore of your mind not your own feelings but my brother's safety– in the barrow, after he was shot upon the moor, and most importantly in the mill, where each time you saved his life after first risking your own._

_And for that, I shall be forever in your debt. Sherlock will never tell you how deeply you have become a part of his life, but I thank you for it. You have saved my brother, Doctor, not just from death in that mill._

_I thank you._

_Yours very sincerely, _

_Mycroft Holmes_

_P.S. Do drop by the Diogenes at some point when you are feeling better?_


	30. Burglar

"Come along, Doctor – don't dawdle!"

"I am not dawdling! Where are we going?"

"Back for another look at the house. I'm not easy in my mind about this matter."

"Oh."

I followed my new friend in silence for a moment; then a thought occurred to me.

"But Lestrade gave orders to not allow you on the premises!"

"Yes, I know. Your point?"

"He won't let you back in the house – neither will the constable outside," I replied, puzzled.

"Lestrade is long abed by this time, Doctor, and the constable will never see us around back," my companion said, tugging my arm to hurry me along the dark streets.

I halted.

"Around back?" I asked suspiciously.

"Yes, there's a conservatory entrance that is completely hidden from the road. We shan't be seen, don't worry."

"WHAT?"

"Keep your voice down! You want every bobby on the beat to hear us?"

"You can't just go breaking into houses, Holmes – it's against the law!"

"Yes, yes, I know. Shh, there's a policeman up ahead."

"Holmes!"

"Shh!"

We passed through an alley, finally reaching the back door of the house.

"Holmes! What if we get caught!"

"My, you are optimistic tonight, aren't you."

"Well?"

"My dear Doctor. One thing you had better learn about me right now, is that I am a very highly efficient burglar."


	31. Barber

"Ouch! Holmes!"

"My apologies – but do hold still, Watson!"

"I'm trying to, confound it!"

I could not help but laugh as I applied the piece of sticking-plaster to the gash on my friend's temple.

"It's not funny."

"Admit it, Watson, it was very much amusing."

"It was _not_ funny."

I sighed, continuing with my work.

"It isn't my fault, Watson."

"It certainly is! When will you learn that some occupations involve a deal of concentration! You cannot just come bursting in and expect the occupants of the room not to show surprise!"

"How was I to know that it would startle him that much!"

"Holmes."

He glared at me with a thinly veiled exasperation.

"When a well-known detective comes flying into a shop, bellowing about being chased by half-a-dozen angry men with knives; and when those men appear outside, looking menacingly into the window while this detective makes very immature faces at them through the glass – it is of no wonder that the occupants of the room are going to be rather jumpy!"

"Well, I am sorry you were the one to suffer because of it," I said, honestly remorseful.

"You should be," he growled, glaring at me.

"Well there's one way to ensure this never happens again, Watson," I said mischievously.

"And what is that?"

"Find a more steady-handed barber."


	32. Bogey

_Okay, before anyone yaps about this being unCanonical, PGF and I have both seen in the last two days the Granada version of FINA, in which Watson returns to Baker Street from a holiday carrying a golf bag and clubs. So there, it's at least Granadical. :P_

* * *

_Thwock!_

"Oh, well done, Holmes. You're catching on marvelously."

"I still think this is the most absurd sport."

"Be that as it may, you are rather good."

"Bah. I look like a fop."

"No, you don't," I reassured as I glanced down the fairway.

"I mean, really, Watson. _Golf_? I look like an idiot."

"No, you don't, you look like every other novice here," I grinned.

"Oh, very funny. I suppose you think I should dress the part, as you did?"

"No, honestly, I don't think argyle socks would look good on you, Holmes."

Our client had recommended this course, and after an entire morning of cajoling I had persuaded Holmes to temporarily stop investigating and accompany me. He had complied with poor grace and was doing his utmost to make me regret asking.

I was quite annoyed that the man appeared to be far better a golfer than I, though I had played previously and he had not.

He was in a much better humour by the eighteenth hole, seeing that he was beating me by at least ten strokes, and his attitude was fast becoming insufferable.

"I am very much regretting this," I growled, lining up my putt and sinking the ball.

Holmes smirked, slapping the scorecard into my hand.

"Doesn't help when you end on a double bogey."


	33. Before

I stood for a moment unnoticed in the doorway, critically appraising every detail of the room's spotlessness and finally assuring myself that it was satisfactory.

Then my gaze turned back to the man seated on the edge of the bed, speaking earnestly and not without tremor to the pale figure under the sheets.

I harboured no bitterness that Sherlock had called first for him and not for me, nor that he was obviously more relieved when the Doctor was near than he was around me.

I watched as Watson bent over my brother, speaking soothingly and tucking the blankets gently in round my brother. Sherlock's drawn face relaxed into a small affectionate smile as the man finished his ministrations and reluctantly turned to leave, having left an important patient waiting in his surgery when the news arrived.

I shook the Doctor's hand reassuringly as he left and promised to look out for my brother. Then I entered the room and pulled up a chair, glancing down at Sherlock's pain-filled expression.

"Brother. I must apologise for getting myself into this mess."

"Sherlock, what in heaven's name possessed you to walk into such an ambush?" I finally exploded. "Why weren't you watching out for yourself!"

My brother glanced tiredly at the door where his friend had just exited.

"I never had to before."


	34. Broken

"Two shillings, gov'."

I fished round in my pocket for the fare and tossed it to the cabbie, following Holmes up to our door.

"I do hope Mrs. Hudson thought to feed poor Toby," he remarked, "poor little beggar did a good morning's work for us, you know."

"I would assume she fed him – his howls when we left could be heard on Marylebone Road," I muttered as we entered.

"Hmph."

"I don't think the neighbours appreciated it."

"I don't really care, Watson."

"You never do. I suppose it can't be worse than indoor revolver practice and exploding chemical flasks."

"Then why are you grumbling?"

"I'm not grumbling, I just don't want a howling dog cluttering up the sitting room!" I said, opening the door.

Then I stared into the room in dismay.

"**Holmes**!"

"What?" he bellowed from his bedroom.

"Get out here! Where is that wretched dog!"

Holmes scrambled out into the sitting room and halted.

"My slippers!"

"_And_ two of my journals. I'm going to shoot that dog!"

"You can't – Toby's a vital part of detection!"

"Then you'd better find him first!"

"Watson –"

"Holmes," I warned, stepping over to the wad of shredded paper.

"Um, all right. Mrs. Hudson!!"

I paused, grimacing.

"Holmes."

"What?"

"You might warn the good woman, dear Toby doesn't appear to be house broken."

* * *

_Ok, I know I cheated, since housebroken is one word, but it's getting harder to come up with B words..._


	35. Blunder

_Okay, I will freely admit I'm rather short on plot bunnies (and B words) - so feel free please to suggest ideas for this series to continue. Many thanks!_

* * *

"Doctor. I believe I've made a blunder."

"I am rather inclined to agree with you."

"Yes, I thought you might."

Silence. Then…

"What kind of an investigator are you anyway?"

"Well how was I to know –"

"You're supposed to know _everything_, by your own admission, Holmes!"

"Yes, well, no man is omniscient!"

"Especially you, it seems."

"Oh, do be quiet."

There was a strained silence for a few more minutes.

"You didn't have to come along, you know, Doctor."

"I'm rather wishing I hadn't, actually."

"So am I," I muttered, filled with a genuine guilt.

He sighed quietly.

"Does this sort of thing happen much during your cases, Holmes?"

"With…fair regularity."

"Wonderful. How have you survived for – how many years have you been doing this?"

"Only three. I regret dragging you into it, though."

"It wasn't totally your fault. I'm a soldier, used to stealth tactics – why didn't I see them?"

I was astonished at my new friend's willingness to accept blame for something that was definitely not his fault. But I had no time to think upon the matter; we could hear footsteps nearing our prison.

"Well, at least Lestrade should have your message by now," he said hopefully.

"Er, Doctor? I…forgot…to send the message before we left Baker Street."

"You – _forgot_."

"As I said, a blunder."


	36. Bait

"You still haven't told me what we're doing out here in this God-forsaken neck of the woods," I whispered.

"Shh!"

I rolled my eyes and settled back against a tree, waiting.

Momentarily Holmes scrambled back to me, seating himself on the ground.

"Well?"

"The last member of the gang is riding up the road now," he whispered, removing his revolver from his pocket.

I checked my own weapon, choking down the nervousness that always appeared when the denouement of the case was near.

"What is your plan, Holmes?"

"We shall let them all get inside the inn – should all be in the front room there."

"But we can't take out an entire room full of ruffians – it's too risky!"

"I know. You shall secrete yourself in the bushes just outside the door and wait for the action to start."

I looked at my friend suspiciously, not liking where this conversation was heading.

"What will you be doing?"

"Drawing them all out of the inn. It will be easier to take them in the open air, without any cover for them to hide. Wait until they are all after me, and then –"

"I certainly will not!"

"Watson –"

"We shall _both_ draw them out or none at all. I will not stand by while you allow yourself to be mere bait."


	37. Burden

I held my breath, peering through the undergrowth as our pursuers hurried along the false trail I had laid for them before backtracking.

Finally the last fellow passed my hiding place on the heels of his fellows. I hastened back to the trees where I had left Holmes.

He had not moved, now curled up in a ball, shivering – going into shock. I knelt beside him with a curse, removing my overcoat and wrapping it round him snugly. His pain-filled eyes half-opened, fastening upon me with a dim consciousness.

"Watson?"

His voice was only a whimper.

I swallowed hard.

"They're following the false trail I left for them," I soothed, gently turning him over to look at the wound in his left shoulder, far too near his heart.

He gasped in pain, clutching at my arm convulsively with a strangled cry.

"Easy, old fellow – I'm here," I murmured, checking the crude dressing I had only just had time to apply before we had been forced to run for our lives from the remainder of the gang.

"G-get out of here."

"Oh, stop it," I growled, pulling him to his feet gently.

"I c-can't m-move."

"Then I'll carry you."

"You c-can't possibly –"

He finally gave in with a low moan, sagging against me.

I never had carried so important a burden.


	38. None Better

I shakily paced that waiting room, horrible nightmares flashing through my mind, filling me with a terror I had rarely before possessed. By the time his frantic wife arrived I was so unsteady I could scarce keep my feet.

"What happened?" she whispered.

"It – was a trap, sprung before time," I replied round the lump in my throat, "we – we were set upon ten minutes before the police were scheduled to be in position…there were too many of them…I got yanked from his back somehow, and by the time I was able to move –"

I choked, unable to continue.

Watson's physician exited his room, glancing at us.

"Well?" I snapped before Mary could.

"He will recover – wound was not particularly deep but serious enough."

His wife's eyes filled with tears, and I collapsed into my chair limply.

"He will be under again from the morphine momentarily, but one of you can see him if you hurry."

"Go ahead, Mr. Holmes."

I stared at his wife, shaking my head. She returned my look with a watery smile.

"I know him – his first thought will be if you survived the fight. Go on, I shall be there when he awakens next time."

I managed a smile.

If I had had to lose Watson to a woman, he could have chosen none better.


	39. Lestrade I

_As Protector of the Grey Fortress already told you, she started an angst challenge; so I shall be in that vein for...let's see, how many of these did i do over two days? Eighteen or so?_

* * *

I got the summons to the East End just before I left the Yard, and dashed inconvenient it was, too. But I've never had occasion yet to regret answering a message from Mr. Holmes, so I grabbed a squad of constables and was on my way.

Judging from the angry voices I could hear through the thin door there was no time to be lost, so I kicked the flimsy lock, and we spilled through the door like water poured from a pitcher.

I saw at a glance that I was only just in time. Three tall chaps with pistols had menacingly backed Holmes and the Doctor against the wall.

As I entered so unceremoniously, two of the thugs whirled in my direction, guns flying upward. I snapped off two shots, feeling one return bullet whiz past me, narrowly missing my men.

At the same instant, I was vaguely aware of the Doctor shoving Holmes to the floor and yanking that blasted service revolver from his pocket, standing over his friend and pumping a bullet toward the third man.

But he was a second too late, for the villain snapped off a shot before the Doctor's bullet left the chamber. His shot went wild as he reeled back, crumpling to the floor.

I emptied my gun without compunction into the blackguard.


	40. Lestrade II

My men were absolutely useless, standing there just gawping at the three dead men…or was it _four_?

My heart plummeted into my shoes as I saw Mr. Holmes dropping beside his fallen friend, his face the color of a London fog. Even from the door I could see he was trembling, frightened half out of his wits; and no wonder, the Doctor standing over him like that and then taking a bullet right in front of him.

"Cummings, stop that gawking! Get these men out of here!" I snapped, nervously making my way over to Holmes.

I'd seen him shaken up before – that Rawlings case when the murderer had thrown a knife at Watson and nicked him – but I'd never seen Holmes anywhere close to being _this_ petrified. I gaped, unable to believe how the detective's barriers suddenly became non-existent.

Holmes was cradling the Doctor in his arms as tenderly as any normal man, his lips shaking as he whispered his name. I caught my breath as the Doctor's eyes opened, looking about dizzily before settling back on Holmes's white face. Then he feebly patted Holmes's arm.

"'S all right, Holmes," he whispered weakly, "I ought to know – not – not bad. I promise."

I only realised as my head started to swim that I'd forgotten to let out my breath.


	41. Boy

"And so we waited in the darkened bedroom, listening to the wind howling, waiting for danger to strike."

I paused, looking down at the semi-circle of wide-eyed lads that surrounded my chair.

"Mr. Holmes had deduced from the fact that the bed was bolted to the floor and the bell-rope was anchored on the ventilator, that _something_ was supposed to come through that opening and drop onto the bed," I went on in a hushed voice.

"An' snuff the bloke wot was sleepin'?"

"Alfie! Don' interrupt the Doctor!" Wiggins barked, cuffing the lad's ginger head lightly.

I laughed at the little one's wide-eyed enthusiasm.

"Yes, Alfie, it was responsible for the death of the bed's occupant."

"There, yew 'appy now? Go on, Doctor!"

"Well," I said, leaning forward, "we sat there, Holmes on the bed and I in the chair –"

"Why was Mr. 'Olmes sittin' on the bed, if'n 'ee knew somethin' was barmy 'bout it?" Alfie interjected, wrinkling his nose.

"'Cause 'ee didn' want th' _Doctor_ sittin' in the way of danger, yew dolt," Wiggins snapped impatiently, turning his attention back to me.

I stopped, considering the lad's words with a sudden realization, and glanced over the boys' heads to where Holmes stood in the doorway, watching the scene amusedly. He smiled and addressed Wiggins.

"Sound deduction, my boy."


	42. Been

_I was running, fast as I could – I had to get back in time, I simply had to! The letter was a hoax, why had I fallen for it! _

_My breath was hitching, an agonising stitch in my side, my leg throbbing, but still I ran, knowing I had to. I drew nearer – now I could hear the roar of the Falls, the cascading of the water…_

_I rounded the corner of the path and was filled with icy fear._

_"Holmes!"_

_He was struggling with a man on the very edge. I took off at a dead sprint…_

_I reached the path just in time to see them falter, teetering…_

_"Holmes!"_

_"Watson!" I heard a frantic voice calling back as they went tumbling…down…_

_"No!" I sobbed._

_"Watson!"_

"Watson, **wake up**!"

I gasped in fright – staring into Holmes's white face as he held me tightly, gripping my shoulders.

"H-Holmes," I whispered, realising I was trembling all over and my face was wet with tears.

His own expression was unguardedly softened with worry as I sat up shakily, clinging to him.

"You frightened me half to death, old fellow," he said gently, "when I heard you scream I thought someone was up here."

"I'm sorry," I murmured.

"No, I am," he whispered, "these ghosts are my fault. What a heartless fiend I've been."


	43. A Battle

I paced up and down the landing outside his bedroom, my mind in turmoil.

I halted, my heart nearly stopping, hearing his hoarse breathing and coughing cease – then letting my breath out with a hiss as he started again.

I collapsed onto the stairs, knowing if I stood for any longer my trembling would cause me to fall.

I had not even known he was feeling ought but normal until he had suddenly collapsed after we returned to Baker Street, burning with fever.

Pneumonia, Jackson had said, fairly advanced. How could I have not seen the indications? Watson was good at hiding pain from me, but not that good.

It was entirely my fault.

And that mistake might be costing me a price so high I would never be able to pay. No case was worth losing him.

I jumped to my feet as the coughing from the bedroom stopped again, choking on the lump in my throat – but it started once more and I slumped back.

Jackson emerged a moment later and I sprang for him eagerly.

"He's still very ill, Holmes, I can't lie to you," the physician said soberly.

"But will he –"

"If he continues to fight, he should pull through. The crisis is past, but his fever's still high and it will still be a battle."


	44. Blinking

I gently opened the door. Jackson had lowered the gas, casting a feeble glow onto the pale figure struggling to breathe.

I sat on the edge of the bed, laying an unsteady hand on Watson's forehead. He shifted slightly, moaning, but made no other move to acknowledge me. He was still burning, unconsciously coughing.

I picked up the cool cloth from the table, placed it on his forehead, then sat to wait.

And to think.

And my thoughts were nowhere near pleasant.

How could I have been so blind? I would never have forgiven myself had he not passed the crisis – I had dragged him all about London in an ice storm, not realising he was ill!

What kind of a friend was I? Watson always protected my back; I never had to fear anything. I was supposed to do the same for him.

And I had failed miserably. Completely. Utterly.

I was without doubt the lowest form of –

"Holmes?"

A hoarse whisper disintegrated my thoughts; I glanced up to see him looking at me with clouded eyes. I sat beside him and took his hand gently.

"Sorry – for s-scaring you," he murmured weakly.

No reproach for my atrocious conduct, only self-effacing consideration for my feelings.

I bowed my head over his hand, not wanting him to see my too-rapid blinking.


	45. Boring

I settled back comfortably in the seat as we rattled along back to London. As I lit my pipe and met Watson's tired gaze across the compartment, I was very glad indeed that this sordid affair was over with – it had been far too indicative of how low humanity can possibly sink in this life.

"Holmes, something bothering you?"

"Mmh?"

I was startled out of my thoughts. "No, I was just thinking."

Watson chuckled.

"When are you _not_?"

I grinned at him, but then my face sobered once more in contemplation.

"Case bothering you?"

"Not necessarily the case, Watson, just…"

He nodded understandingly.

"Just you wonder what drives a man to such extremities, and how far our society is responsible for it," he said quietly.

Again, the man could read me like a book – I was not the only observer in this partnership.

"Sometimes – sometimes, Watson," I sighed thoughtfully, puffing on my pipe, "I wish I had not taken up this mantle of combating evil."

"I know. But none could do it better."

I glanced up at his serious face and felt my face crease in a smile.

"Thank you, Watson."

He echoed my sigh, glancing thoughtfully out the window.

"What do suppose _my_ life would have been like, if I hadn't met you, Holmes?"

"Well for one thing, deucedly boring."


	46. My Boswell

I bit back a cry of agony and tugged at the knot again; this time it loosened and I jerked hard on the rope, feeling it release enough for my arms to slip through. I gasped as my wounded shoulder protested – it was bleeding again – and bent to untie my ankles.

Suddenly I heard pounding footsteps outside my prison – they were coming back early!

I stumbled over behind the door, determined to go down fighting.

I tackled the man, crying out as the impact sent a blinding pain through my body. Suddenly I found myself pinned down, a familiar voice speaking gently.

"Easy, Watson, it's all right!"

I stopped struggling, eyes squeezed shut against the pain.

"H-Holmes."

He gasped sharply as his hand on my shoulder grew wet with blood. The pressure made me cry out and try to move away, but he held me still, pressing his handkerchief to the wound I had clumsily bandaged after I'd been attacked.

"How – did you find me?" I whispered.

Holmes detailed a long string of deductions in a soothing voice, tightening his grip reassuringly as I choked on the pain.

Finally, exhausted, I slumped back against him, managing a smile at his white face.

"Sorry for tackling you like that," I whispered.

Holmes smiled fondly.

"Always a man of action, is my Boswell."


	47. Biscuits

I donned my dressing gown, heading for the stairs. Below I heard colourful swearing as Holmes emerged from his bedroom, rubbing his eyes. The doorbell sounded again.

"Who could that possibly be? Lestrade?" I growled.

"Lestrade knows I'd _shoot_ him if he rang like that at one a.m.," Holmes snarled.

I stumbled down the stairs, opening the door.

And snapped fully awake as two little boys fell in.

"Wiggins! What's happened?"

I caught Alfie as he pitched forward.

" 'E fell outta a loft, Doctor!" Wiggins gasped shakily, "didn't know where ta take 'im – 'elp us?"

"Holmes!"

"Put him in my room!"

I laid the unconscious boy on Holmes's bed, turning up the gas.

Holmes clamped a strong hand on Wiggins's shoulder, both hovering nearby. My hands shook as I checked Alfie for injuries, pausing when I came to his arm.

"Arm's broken, and he has a concussion – but it looks like nothing worse," I said.

"'Sright, Doctor, 'ee landed on 'is shoulder."

I set the arm, making him warm and settling down for a lonely night vigil; Holmes and Wiggins retired to the sitting room.

In the wee hours, I was rewarded by two green eyes opening to meet mine, grimacing.

"Blimey, oi don' wanna do tha' ever again."

"How are you feeling, Alfie?"

He grinned at me.

"Got any biscuits?"


	48. Breathed

"I hate fog!"

"You've said that ten times today, Holmes. You're horrible, wishing someone would get hurt so it would break up your monotony."

He laughed.

"Well, this stage is set for a magnificent crime; 'tis a shame no criminal has risen to the opportunity. I'm running down to the tobacconist's, Watson."

I nodded, vaguely hearing the front door shut, continuing to scribble for a while.

And completely not hearing the footsteps behind me.

I started, seeing a familiar figure, gun in hand.

"Rogers! What – what are you doing out of jail?" I gasped.

"On an errand, Doctor. Where's your friend?" he asked coolly.

"He left – won't be back until tomorrow," I fibbed.

"Well, I suppose I shall have to settle for you, then," he stated calmly, cocking the gun.

I dropped to my knees, slamming Rogers to the ground, struggling for the pistol.

My fingers closed round the weapon and I tried to twist it from his hand, but he was stronger and started to force it against my head. I was weakening, I was about to die…

Suddenly something crashed and Rogers fell limply off me.

"T-took you long enough!" I gasped.

Holmes dropped the poker, slipping an arm round my shoulders, face white as a ghost.

"I swear, I shall never complain about the fog again," he breathed.


	49. Brutal

"Well, look at the bright side, Watson. It is a lovely day, at least – nice and warm."

"Boiling, more like."

"We're not out in the heat."

"It's magnified ten times through the windows."

"We're not bored anymore."

"Holmes."

"What?"

"Shut your mouth and work on those handcuffs."

"I'm trying."

"Then try harder."

"It's not that easy!"

"I thought that escape artist friend of yours taught you how to get out of handcuffs."

"Yes, but that's when you have a special wire to pick the lock – and when your hands are in front of you, not behind!"

The sun shone merrily through the window and Watson glowered at it.

"Of all the days for the sun to finally show its face on a rainy London, and we have to be locked in a deserted warehouse. Because _someone_ wore cufflinks whose initials did not correspond with his alias."

"I forgot to change them! How was I to know Parker would be that observant!"

"You're supposed to be attentive to detail, Holmes!"

"None of us are perfect! Besides, you're the one who bought them for me for Christmas – you should be touched I was wearing them!"

"I'll _touch_ you, with a _horsewhip_, if you don't get us out of here before that bomb goes off!"

"My dear Watson, sometimes your sentiment is simply brutal."


	50. Turning Back

_Because Holmes appears to be not getting beat up as much as Watson..._

* * *

I was so cold.

I wanted nothing more than to sink down into that beckoning blackness, far from the pain and chill, and not return. Why not?

But the darkness was pushed back as warmth suddenly cocooned me. No, it was too hard; though the warmth was welcome, I was too tired to make the effort to return…

"H-Holmes? Holmes, please!"

Oh, why wouldn't people just leave me alone…

"Dear God, no! Please!"

Confound it, the darkness began to retreat as I felt movement and something lifted me, tightening round my injured frame.

Now I remembered, the carriage had turned over that embankment…

But I only wished for darkness as pain began to filter through my senses. If only that grip would loosen, it was hurting dreadfully, rocking me…

"No! Holmes, don't do this to me, please! I – I can't survive it, not _again_!"

The desperation in the voice suddenly drove the darkness further back, as I gradually became aware of my surroundings...I was being tightly held in a shaking grip, my aching head resting against something far more comfortable than the stony ground…

"No!"

And as I heard the unmistakable sound of a heart-broken sob close against my head, I suddenly realised there was something I wanted far more than to just sink into that welcoming blackness.

I turned back.


	51. Battle

I jumped to my feet as the heavy door creaked open with a rattling of iron bars. It swung open and a limp figure was roughly shoved into the room.

I managed to catch Watson before he hit the floor, the raucous laughter of the two guards ringing in my ears. I half-dragged, half-carried him over to the lone cot and laid him on it, eliciting a choked cry of pain from my friend.

I clenched my jaw, trying my best to clean the blood off his face with my handkerchief. He hissed in pain as I touched a sore area checking for broken bones, his dim eyes finally flickering open, fastening upon my face.

"H-Holmes?"

"Shh, it's all right, my dear fellow – just lie quiet."

"N-no, listen," he gasped, clutching frantically at my arm.

"What is it, old chap?"

"They – used a bottle – I – I fell and – grabbed – a chunk of glass," he gasped out.

I smiled sadly which he weakly returned, and I drew the shard from his pocket, setting it on the floor.

"Sorry – I – won't be – much help," he whispered, clenching his fists.

I jerked my head up as footsteps drew near and the door began to be unlocked again. I squeezed Watson's shoulder and snatched the shard, placing myself behind the door, ready to do battle.


	52. Badly

"Where is Holmes?"

"I – I –"

"So help me, Fenton, I'll kill you!"

"N-no! Th-the caves, h-he's in the big one," the man gasped.

My heart leapt into my throat, choking me.

"But – the tides!"

"That was Jefferson's idea, n-not mine!" he whimpered.

I only had thirty minutes before high tide.

I stopped at the mouth of the cave, swallowing down that paralysing fear of water that threatened to make a coward of me once again, staring at the tide that was already filling the passage.

Then I held my breath, plunging into the current.

I admit to panic, fearing I would fall and be swept away, but I headed into the cave, jaw clenched.

Suddenly I heard a splash, and I whirled in time to see a dark head disappear under the water, now chest-high. I dove and caught him, yanking his head above water just as the current tugged about us.

Holmes's eyes grew wide above the gag, but there was no time to release him, the tide was pouring in on us. I threw him over my shoulder and staggered back through the rising current, finally collapsing on firm ground, untying him with shaking hands.

"Y-you c-came through that w-water," he whispered in wonder, shivering in my arms.

I do not know which of us was trembling more badly.


	53. Us Both

"Don't move, Doctor," Loughton warned.

I cast a fearful glance at Holmes, lying stunned on the hearthrug from the blow he'd received for his defiance.

"Hand over that file, Doctor, and I might be inclined to spare you both," Loughton growled, advancing.

"We – don't have the file," I lied desperately, "we gave it to the police."

Loughton reached out a huge hand and grabbed me by the collar, pressing the gun close to my face. I swallowed hard.

"You've ten seconds, Doctor."

I knew I was trapped, when suddenly –

There was a loud war-whoop and Holmes's Inverness came flying through the air attached to a frightened Irregular. Alfie had launched himself off the couch and now threw the coat over Loughton's head.

The man screamed, I twisted the gun from his grip and brought it down upon his head forcefully. Loughton dropped like a stone, tangled in the Inverness.

I knelt next to Holmes, who groggily sat up with Alfie's help.

"Yew all roight, Mr. 'Olmes?"

The little boy was shaking; he suddenly wrapped his small arms round Holmes's neck, who cleared his throat nervously.

Then Alfie let go with one arm to throw it round me, nearly knocking Holmes's and my heads together.

"Er, Alfie."

But neither of us had the heart to disengage the lad's grip on us both.


	54. Bone

"That wasn't a very smart move, Mr. Holmes, not smart at all."

I edged closer to Holmes as I saw the alley blocked by two men. My friend slowly retreated from the irate informant we had unwittingly double-crossed in this case.

I glanced behind and saw three more men blocking any chance of escape we might have had. Holmes's eyes flitted to them and he pushed me so that our backs were against the cold brick of a building. I felt him quivering with suppressed nervousness as we realised we were very effectively trapped.

The informant whose identity we had accidentally let slip to Lestrade was advancing upon us methodically, a weighted club in his hand.

Before Holmes could even remonstrate with him, the man leapt upon him with that club, yanking him away from the wall. Holmes sent him reeling, and I jumped to his back on the instant, soon engaged in just trying to remain on my feet.

But there were too many, I was jerked away from Holmes and sent crashing into the brick of the building. My head started to spin, and I fell heavily as the pavement seemed to tip upside down beneath my feet. From somewhere I received a vicious kick from a steel-toed boot, hard enough that I felt a sickening crunch of bone.


	55. Blame

I heard Holmes's angry snarl, sounding in my half-conscious mind, and suddenly the blows ceased. I struggled desperately to clear my vision, fumbling for the revolver in my pocket.

Finally I could see - Holmes was not going to win this – I had only taken out one man before I was set upon. At the moment he was sending sprawling the man who had been kicking me but he could not hold his own against three more.

I fumbled my gun out, but my vision was nowhere near clear enough for me to aim properly. I managed a shot into the air before the world tipped again, pain shooting through my chest, and I slumped back to the pavement as the sounds faded.

Gentle hands turned me over, ably checking for injuries. I gasped as they touched what I knew to be broken ribs and opened my blurry eyes, trying to focus.

Holmes looked like death itself, but he was alive and the men had fled.

"Shh, easy, old chap," he said soothingly, "where are you hurt?"

"Just – ribs, I think," I managed, wincing at the movement, "head, maybe –"

"This is all my fault, I let the man's name slip," he choked, turning guilty eyes to meet mine.

"Oh, stop it, Holmes – we're in this together – we are both to blame."


	56. Temper

"They can't find the magistrate, Inspector - it'll be another hour," the sergeant reported, saluting.

"An hour!"

"Where are you going, Doctor?" Lestrade demanded.

"To find Holmes," I growled.

"You can't break in there, I'll have to arrest you for illegal entry!"

"If they kill Holmes before you get there, Lestrade, then I'll return the favour for accomplice to murder!"

The man gaped as I stormed out, heading for the house the Irregulars had already ascertained Holmes was being held in.

At the end of a hall, I heard voices, one I recognized as my friend's. I fumed, hearing the sound of a blow, then a cry of pain. I kicked the lock on the door and it flew open.

"Touch him again, and I'll kill you, I swear it!"

Holmes's bruised face flooded with relief, the two forgers' with rage. One of them suddenly landed a stunning blow to Holmes's head, sending him sprawling upon the floor.

My control snapped, and I believe the police doctor told me later the fellow had the worst concussion he had seen in twenty years.

After I had incapacitated both of them I knelt beside my stunned friend. His eyelids fluttered open and a small grin crossed his face as he spoke hoarsely.

"You simply must learn to control that temper, old boy."


	57. Second Encounter I

"Oh, confound it!"

This mild sentiment was followed by a string of choice curses that I will not attempt to reproduce in this memoir.

"What's the matter, Holmes?"

"I've dropped that bullet I was experimenting on!" he growled, flinging himself down on the carpet to search for the elusive piece of lead.

I watched amusedly as he crawled about on the floor, attempting to find the object amidst the immense clutter that littered the carpet. Judging from the ferocity of his growls, he was having very little luck.

Holmes threw a stack of files in my general direction, scrambling under the deal table to search for the bullet. He emerged, sneezing and muttering something about having Mrs. Hudson dust under there, then shoved a pile of books to the side and began picking up papers and shaking them, trying to find the projectile.

"Well you could help me look instead of just sitting there!" he grumbled, sending me a glare.

"If you can't find it, and you're the world's greatest investigator, I doubt that I should be able to succeed where you failed, Holmes," I replied mischievously.

I heard a peculiar squeaking noise from close to my feet. Glancing down, I felt my eyes grow wide, then sat back with a moan.

"Holmes."

"What is it now?"

"That mouse is back."


	58. Second Encounter II

Holmes had been crawling under the couch as I spoke, and he jerked his head up straight into the bottom of it, cursing loudly.

The mouse at my feet squeaked what I assumed to be the rodent equivalent to a snicker. Holmes scrambled up and over the couch, glaring at me warningly. I wordlessly pointed a finger at my feet.

The mouse climbed up on the arm of my chair, regarding us with twinkling eyes.

"Having a bit of trouble, Mr. Holmes?"

"I don't talk to mice, I don't talk to mice," I heard him mutter desperately, and I could not restrain a laugh. Basil joined me, glancing at me in amusement.

"Stubborn chap, isn't he?"

"Definitely," I agreed with a grin.

"What's your difficulty, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, whiskers twitching as he turned that tiny piercing gaze back to my friend.

"I dropped a bullet I was inspecting – now wait!"

I snickered, and Basil did as well.

"You don't talk to mice, eh?"

"Don't start with me, Watson!"

The mouse jumped off my chair and I watched interestedly as he began to make his way through the litter, wriggling in and out of the stacks of books until he finally disappeared under a loose stone in the hearth.

And a moment later, he emerged, dragging with him the lost bullet.


	59. Second Encounter III

I bit back a shout of laughter as Holmes got down on his hands and knees again, his long nose scant inches from the smug mouse. Basil stood there on the carpeting, casually leaning one arm – or was it a _leg_ in a rodent? – on the top of the bullet, which he had now stood on its end.

The little chap then squeaked a laugh and pushed the offending projectile toward my friend. Holmes snatched it with a glare that would have made most men (and I supposed mice) cringe, but the mouse didn't appear to be fazed in the least by it, his whiskers merely twitching in a grin.

Holmes growled something and scrambled to his feet, re-seating himself at his chemical table and starting his experiments afresh. Basil stood for a moment, sniffing curiously at the horrid smells emanating from the chemicals, and then turned to me, cocking his head curiously, a question obvious in his little dark eyes.

I smiled and held the novel I'd been reading out at his level, and he climbed up on it with a thin, tiny voice of thanks. I noiselessly walked over and set the book upon the table, completely unnoticed by my intently working friend, and settled back to watch the afternoon's entertainment.

I calculated approximately ten minutes before a blowup…


	60. Second Encounter IV

"Don't you think you have slightly too much chloride in that mixture, Mr. Holmes?"

Basil's thin voice suddenly broke the silence.

Holmes yelped, his hands jerking, and liquid sloshed over the side of the beaker. I hid my face, and its wide grin, in the newspaper as Holmes set down the equipment, turned off the burner, and turned his not-in-the-least amused gaze at the pert mouse sitting atop his table.

"You needn't act as if it were a personal affront, Mr. Holmes, I merely didn't want you to cause an explosion like you did a few weeks ago," he said mischievously, curiously peering into Holmes's microscope.

I hastily stopped laughing as Holmes sent a murderous glare at me before scooting the microscope away from the mouse's inspection.

"You're investigating that Wesson Street bank robbery case, then?"

I dropped my paper in astonishment and Holmes stared incredulously at the mouse, who was regarding him coolly.

"How in the world –"

"Oh, really, Mr. Holmes, it's a very simple deduction – that mud under the microscope has that greenish tinge only found in that area of London. Since there was only one crime committed in that area in the last fortnight of any note, and I doubt you experiment with mud indiscriminately, it is logical to deduce you're on that case for the bank."


	61. Second Encounter V

I have no idea which expression was more priceless, the smug smirk on the mouse's face or the absolute dumbfounded incredulity on Holmes's. My friend spluttered for a moment, trying to comprehend the idea of a rodent who could deduce as well as he.

"Well, Dr. Watson, since Mr. Holmes seems to be at a loss for words, I shall direct my goodbyes to you," he said cordially, "you have – what is it, Dawson?"

I bent down to see the other mouse that he had been with before come hurrying along the baseboard, completely out of breath. Basil had turned to his small companion and was firing rapid questions at him much like Holmes was prone to doing to me.

"We've a client waiting, Basil," the other gasped out, glancing up at me with a nod.

"Ah. Well, I shall take my leave of you gentlemen then. If you'll excuse me –"

"Half a moment," Holmes finally found his voice, "a client? What are you?"

"Mr. Holmes. Humans are not the only species in need of a private consulting detective," the mouse said, grinning at my flustered companion.

"But – "

"It might surprise you to know that I receive my clients in my own flat, as you do."

"Where do you live?" I asked, curious.

Basil replied calmly.

"In your basement."


	62. Boot

_Part one of Holmes's POV during the climax of **A Brother Noble**_

* * *

As I rolled, something was niggling in the back of my mind telling me I did not want to continue this motion…

Suddenly my stomach – and the floor – dropped out from beneath me as I realised there was only empty space below.

I was going to die.

I scrabbled on the edge of the catwalk, trying to find a grip and failing, knowing I was going to plunge to a painful death. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the concrete floor come up to meet me…

And suddenly opened them as a tremendous jerk nearly yanked my arm from its socket. I cared naught for the pain, however, just thankful that something had stopped my fatal plunge. A hand was clamped round my wrist, and I instantly latched on in desperation with both of my own.

A familiar, frantic face filled my vision, and I suddenly realised my dead weight was pulling Watson slowly over the edge of the catwalk. His grip tightened as my hand slipped down an inch, filling me with panic.

He frantically grasped the rail with his injured hand, pushing backward on the force pulling against him, and the movement ceased, much to my relief.

Until I saw with horror coming crashing down upon his bad wrist, a foot encased in a heavy steel-toed boot.


	63. My Brother

_Part Two of Holmes's POV from the climax of **A Brother Noble**_

* * *

Clyde drove his foot into Watson's side, and I could feel the convulsions of pain shooting through my friend's body as his arm shook with agony.

Below me I heard a door burst open and voices – then one rose above the rest, sharp and filled with horror.

"Dear Lord! SHERLOCK!"

Clyde saw the newcomers and wasted no time in starting to pry Watson's trembling fingers off the railing. I saw terror flash into his pain-filled hazel eyes as I slipped down another inch, my breathing quickening involuntarily as I felt myself sliding.

A shot from below, and Clyde suddenly toppled over, dead from Tavish's gun. Watson's frightened eyes locked onto mine, but I was too scared to say anything – it was totally up to him now.

His face disappeared, and I unaccountably panicked now that I could not see him – but I found that I was slowly moving, his shaking hand clutching my wrist tighter than ever.

For a breathless moment I was pulled upward, and then I got my head and elbows above the railing, able to take a bit of the strain. In another minute I had wriggled up onto the catwalk.

Watson waited until I was safe, and then his grip loosened as he collapsed.

I gripped his shoulder before collapsing myself, shouting out to my now-frantic brother.


	64. Become

I walked into the sitting room, brushing snow off my overcoat, shivering with the bitter cold.

"It should be a crime to call a Doctor out on Christmas Eve," Holmes murmured, taking my coat and propelling me toward the cozy fire.

"Illness doesn't wait for the holiday season to be over with, unfortunately," I replied, relaxing in the warmth.

I had just begun to warm up when Mrs. Hudson entered bearing a tea-tray, for which I was devoutly grateful. She also held a few Christmas cards and a small package, which she handed to my friend.

After the door closed, he examined it, detaching the small card affixed to the top. A smile creased his face and he handed it to me.

"_Mery Christmus, from the Irreglars_. _Thought yew mite be able to use it somehowe._" I read aloud, chuckling. "What is it?"

"Probably something Wiggins nicked, if I had to guess," Holmes grinned, opening the package.

He gave a little peal of laughter and handed the box to me. I peeked inside and then stared at my companion.

"Persian slippers?" I asked incredulously.

"No, Watson. _One_ slipper," he chuckled, pulling the item out of the box.

_"What??"_

"Now what can I use this for…"

I am sure our boys had no idea what a trademark that item was to become.


	65. Bigger

_This is by request of my friend PGF, who asked specifically for a Basil/Toby ficlet..._

* * *

_"Rrrrrrr!"_

"Watson, keep that dog quiet!"

_"Rowrrr!"_

"Desist, Toby!"

"Holmes, can't you just stay 'sit' like normal people?" I asked amusedly.

Holmes sniffed, rummaging through his desk for his magnifying lens.

"Toby is a highly intelligent animal, Watson," he shot over his shoulder.

I glanced at the droopy-eared dog, a mixture of more than two unidentifiable breeds, and restrained a snicker.

But apparently the other occupant of the room was not so inhibited. I heard a high-pitched squeak from close to my feet, and I bent to see a now-familiar mouse.

"Hallo, Dr. Watson!"

"Good morning, Basil."

Just then Toby came bouncing over, eagerly chewing on a now-bedraggled object he had stolen from Holmes's bedroom, and I hastily offered my hand to Basil for fear the dog would go after him.

"No, no, Doctor – I know Toby better than you do, I'll wager," he said, smiling.

And sure enough, the mutt skidded to a halt in front of him and lowered his nose to the floor, tail wagging.

_"Rrrrrrr!"_

Holmes gaped as the mouse climbed nimbly onto the dog's back, holding to his collar, and began to scratch Toby behind his floppy ears.

Basil grinned at Holmes's spluttering.

_"Rowrrr!"_

"Toby, Mr. Holmes wants you to stop that," Basil directed sternly, "sit!"

The dog sat.

I've never seen Holmes's eyes any bigger.


	66. Bodyguard

I cast my gaze round again, attempting to locate something to saw the ropes from off my hands and not finding anything. As my head started to spin I slumped back, wondering if I was even going to get out of this alive.

Suddenly the door opened and Evers entered – he had said he would return to end my existence if Scotland Yard did not cooperate with his demands about the evidence.

The man's face was dark with hatred.

"I told you they would never cooperate, Evers," I said wearily.

"And I told you what would happen if they did not, Holmes," he snapped, taking a gun from his pocket.

"Drop it, Evers, or I'll put a bullet through your head!"

My tired eyes widened at the cold voice – surely not! But yes, there he was, standing behind the madman with that old service revolver aimed directly at his brain.

Evers stiffened, nervously glancing behind him. He did not relinquish the gun, however.

"I said drop it, Evers. I have no compunction about shooting you!"

"You're a doctor – doctors don't take lives, they've sworn the opposite," the man said with a wicked smile.

I saw pain flit across Watson's face, but then it hardened into a stony mask.

"I am no longer a Doctor by profession, Evers, I am a bodyguard."


	67. Bruised

_BANG!_

I jumped as a loud explosion went off behind me, setting my teeth and continuing to write.

_BANG!_

Honestly, sometimes in this household it was next to impossible to get anything done, much less something that required deep concentration like –

_BANG!_

…like writing.

_BANG!_

In the three months that I had taken up lodgings with this fellow, Sherlock Holmes, I had grown accustomed to many strange habits the fellow evidently cherished. But this was very much the worst.

My nerves had been shot to pieces in the Afghan War. Hence, when I found one of my new fellow-lodger's eccentricities was to fire off a revolver indoors – at the wall, yes! – it was not a pleasant –

_BANG!_

…pleasant realisation.

_BANG!_

I threw down my pen.

"Honestly, Holmes! This is not an indoor firing range!"

He started.

"My apologies, Doctor, I had quite forgotten you were there," he said uncomfortably.

"What the devil are you doing?"

"Practicing, naturally!" he said, miffed.

I stared incredulously.

"You mean you can't hit a target from across the room?"

"I can hit it, but not dead-on," he growled defensively.

I smiled before I could stop myself. Piqued, he glared at me.

"I suppose you could do better?"

Ten minutes later I was staring at a slammed door. Honestly, some men cannot handle their pride being bruised.


	68. Belonged

I don't believe in all my years on the force I've ever seen a more giddy pair of chaps than I saw that spring afternoon when they came walking into the station, arm in arm.

I met them, seeing Gregson poke his head out of his office. Cummings was on duty, and I saw him smirk, pointing as the duo walked past the desk.

"Afternoon, Lestrade!" Holmes sang, eyes dancing.

"Mr. Holmes, Doctor," I replied, smiling automatically at the sight of them both – the Doctor looking far happier than I'd seen in months and Holmes simply alive!

"Brought the air-gun back, as I promised," Holmes said, handing me the weapon.

Gregson was grinning like a cat, motioning for the others to look at the scene.

Holmes and the Doctor shared a glance for a moment. Watson was smiling ear to ear, and I couldn't ever recall seeing Holmes display such happiness as he did just then.

"I would ask you gents to stay for tea, but I'd assume you have other plans," I said slyly.

Holmes merely grinned at me and the group of policemen that had gathered behind me to watch.

The Doctor nodded a smiling farewell as Holmes briskly tugged him back toward the entrance of the station.

It was good to see those two back where they belonged.


	69. Burned

"Any luck?"

"None," Holmes gasped, twisting desperately.

Our captors knew exactly what they were doing, securing us with cords that were cruelly tight – no chance whatsoever of our escaping.

Holmes glanced over his shoulder at the table, beginning to edge his chair backwards until it hit, raising his hands, groping blindly for the candle.

"You're going to burn yourself!"

"That is the least of my worries now, Watson!"

I watched anxiously as he tried to get the rope to catch fire.

His triumphant cry was suddenly drowned by my alarmed gasp.

"Look out – the candle!"

But it was too late, the candle had fallen, setting the spilled liquor on the table ablaze and then the tablecloth.

"Holmes!"

He twisted, finally freeing himself as the table went up just behind him. I bit my lip as his face convulsed in pain from the heat of the blaze, but he broke free, scrambling to his feet.

"Are you hurt, Holmes?"

He merely grunted, yanking so hard on my bonds that I winced.

Then they fell free and he dashed for the window, shattering it with his elbow, grabbing me and pushing me through the jagged opening.

Ten minutes later we were in a cab. Holmes slumped back painfully.

"How badly are you hurt?"

"My dear Watson, you know that if you play with fire you're bound to get burned."


	70. Bright

_In answer to a request from the anonymous Rachel:_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes could be at times the moodiest of men. When no case was upon him, he was prone to the blackest fits of deep depression that ever man fell into.

This was one such day. It was a beautiful balmy spring afternoon, free from the rain that characterises our British Isles, and I had dragged him out-of-doors for a walk, much against his protests.

After an hour of my trying to cajole him into a deducing game with me about people we passed, not succeeding in putting him in a better frame of mind, he finally stopped his grousing to censure me roundly on my incorrect perception.

"Watson, honestly. How many times have I told you, you are a mere _conductor_ of light, not luminous yourself?"

I sighed.

"Multiple times, Holmes."

"Then leave that sort of thing to me, eh? What the devil are you trying to accomplish, anyway?"

"Honestly, Holmes, it doesn't take much of a deduction," I retorted, stung by his words, "to see that I was just trying to get your mind off your failure in the Slane case."

He stiffened.

"How did you –"

He suddenly broke off, the scowl lines in his face slowly relaxing into an affectionate smile, and he slipped his arm through mine.

"And sometimes, Watson, your perception is most startlingly bright."


	71. Barriers

"I really have some scruples about taking you tonight."

"Can I be of assistance?"

"Your presence might be invaluable."

"Then I shall certainly come."

Those five words, and that was all. For a romantic imaginer as I so often tease him about being, my dear Watson is sometimes startlingly matter-of-fact and pointed, uttering this as if it were a given that he would follow me.

The sensation of having someone at my side who actually thought much not only of my abilities but of _me_ was still, even after two years, rather new to me. I was more used to scoffing remarks from arrogant Yarders than I was praise and admiration from the only person who ever tolerated me long enough to become a friend.

And I would freely admit, when we were creeping along that grassy path and that infernal baboon came cavorting out of the trees to scare us both half to death, I was more than just a little glad that he was there.

Also when we entered Roylott's room after the tragedy – I should never have had the nerve to get that adder back into the safe had Watson not been there, warily following its movements with his sharp gun eye.

Who would have thought that in two years he could so successfully melt my icy barriers?


	72. Beat

"Drop that knife or I'll shoot!"

I jerked my head up as the Doctor's familiar voice rang with clarity into the sitting room, carrying a strained edge of nervous tension – what was he doing back so early? I had not expected him for another hour.

And evidently neither had the huge ruffian, one Fortner by name, who had managed to surprise me while I napped and decide to take his revenge for what he termed my 'infernal snooping' that had landed his brother in Dartmoor prison; one of my earliest triumphs in this checkered young career of mine.

Fortner now glared with his manic, bitter hatred at my new fellow-lodger, evidently weighing his chances against the edgy, worn soldier. Then he swore loudly and slashed the knife toward my throat as I lay helpless, my hands handcuffed behind me.

There was a loud report and Fortner gave a strangled cry, toppling over to lie motionless on the carpet.

The Doctor stepped into the room, his Army revolver still smoking. He took the handcuff key from the table and unlocked the derbies without a word to me, and I then noticed that his hands were unaccountably shaking, his tanned face pale as a sheet.

Once I was free he knelt beside the dead criminal, checking futilely for a pulse or heart beat.


	73. Never Broken

Watson was a healer, not hardened to this sort of thing as I. Killing a soldier in battle in the Afghan War was one thing, shooting a criminal in our own sitting room was quite another.

"You've never killed a man outside of war before, have you?" I asked softly.

"No," he whispered, staring down at the body as if in disbelief.

The revolver thudded down from his nerveless fingers, and I caught hold of his arm, pushing him down to the couch, going for a stiff brandy.

"Who – was he?" he asked shakily, "why did he want to kill you?"

"I sent his brother to prison for life," I replied, sitting beside him.

Watson had only seen a couple of my cases and the type of thing I dealt with on a regular basis – this was all a shock to him.

"I – I shot him, just like that," he whispered, still staring at Fortner.

He turned a troubled gaze to me, and I again wondered at his strength of character, that he should be bothered by such an act.

"My dear Watson, you saved my life," I emphasised gently.

I held out my hand, meeting his shaking one, and the die was cast – whether I welcomed the connection or not, we had formed a trust that would never be broken.


	74. Bunk

_Missing scene from **Vows Made in Storms**._

* * *

I opened my eyes slowly, somewhat loathe to leave the comfortable sleep my weary body had taken refuge in.

Then I turned my head and started in surprise. Sherlock Holmes was straddling a chair by my bed, arms folded across the back of it and his chin upon his arm, just sitting there watching me, an uncharacteristically affectionate smile on his face.

"Good afternoon."

"Is it?" I asked sleepily, noticing that the storm of the night had ceased.

"It is indeed. You've slept for a solid nine hours, old fellow."

I sat bolt upright, wincing as I realised how weak I really was. I should have fallen back had Holmes not gently caught me and propped me upright.

"Easy, old chap. What's the matter?"

"Nine hours? Have you been here the whole time?" I asked, clutching at his arm.

"Calm down, Watson. No, when I was certain you really were out of danger I confess I took to my bed as well," he replied gently, "I've only been here for the last hour or so."

"Good," I sighed, settling back under his care and smiling up at him.

My friend's face was filled with something akin to wonder, as if he could still scarcely believe his success in curing me, as he sat beside me on the edge of the bunk.


	75. Blush II

"Watson."

He moved not a muscle, his breathing continued heavy as ever.

"Watson, wake up, old fellow," I repeated more urgently, shaking his shoulder.

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'Go away, Holmes' but I persisted.

"Watson, _wake up_!" I shook him harder.

He either consciously or unconsciously rolled over, yanking the coverlet up round his neck. I pulled it back, allowing the frigid December air into the cocoon of warmth he had created, and he shivered and tried to replace it.

"No, you are not going back to sleep. Come on now, my dear fellow, Hopkins is waiting for us in the cab downstairs," I said sternly, "And he is already impatient, the case looks promising…Watson?"

His breathing, which had momentarily quickened at the cold air, had subsided back into his steady rhythm. Honestly, the man could, and had, slept through almost anything, anywhere.

"Watson, get up!" I said, annoyed now, "or I shall leave you here, and you will miss the entire case!"

Either he did not hear me or was pretending not to; I rather suspected the former. There was only one thing to do.

I took the pitcher of frigid water from the bedside table and dumped a half of it on his face.

The spluttering names he called me would have made a sailor blush.


	76. Boat

"You're sure about this, Mr. Holmes?" I whispered as we crept along the bank toward the rowboat.

I could see three figures as we neared. Holmes's face was pinched with tension.

"Yes, Lestrade. Now don't make a sound!"

I tried to be as noiseless as possible. That informant had been right, they did have the Doctor out there. He was sitting in the rowboat, hands tied behind him, and the two blackguards were just pushing it into the water.

Holmes cursed and flew from the trees recklessly. I hauled my pistol from my hip-pocket and tried to cover him best I could.

But the men had already seen him and had shoved out into the water, which was fairly deep in this part of the river; Holmes waded to them just in time and one of them swung at him with an oar. I nearly cheered when the Doctor kicked the man hard, spoiling his aim.

But then the other man retaliated angrily, giving the Doctor a firm shove, sending him splashing overboard with a frightened cry!

I got close just in time to see Holmes's face darken with rage. He snarled and grabbed the oar from the man's hands and brought it across his skull with a crack that could have been heard downstream; then he disappeared under the boat.


	77. Breakdown

"Hold it right there unless you'd like a bullet!" I shouted, "get those oars and bring that boat ashore. Now!"

When the cowed villain reached shore, I slapped the derbies on him and the other, cuffing them to the boat, then turned my attention to the river.

I felt a lump come into my throat and stay until there was a sudden splashing a bit downstream. I hurried toward it.

I saw Holmes drag them both up onto the grassy bank, clutching tightly to the Doctor who was shaking like a leaf, and no wonder. Holmes gently pulled him upright, leaning the Doctor's head on his shoulder as he reached round him to untie his hands.

I was about to go forward but stopped, seeing the Doctor grab hold of Holmes's coat with both trembling hands, coughing and looking more frightened than I had ever seen him. Holmes put an arm round his shoulders with a gentleness I never would have thought possible, lowering his head to say something softly that I could not hear.

And as I saw the Doctor start to quiet under his friend's soothing voice, I hastily backed away from the scene, embarrassed to be privy to something so personal.

Honestly, one of these days one of them was going to scare the other into a complete nervous breakdown.


	78. Breath

_Missing scene from **The Powers of Evil**. Ok, so yes it's a plug..._

* * *

Confound that blasted wind, after a month of living on the moor the howling was beginning to grate on my already taut nerves. What was it about the moor that made the entire atmosphere seem gloomy and dank?

And this moor more than any other, because of its dreadful occupant and his so-called demon hound. Stapleton had to be the worst villain I had yet encountered in my career – cool, calculating, deadly as an adder.

I lit a candle, for the gathering cloud-cover was starting to block out what little light shone through the low doorway of the hut, and began to peruse the evidence I'd gathered about the man. Very soon now, my nets would be in place and I could go get Watson and close this sordid case.

My thoughts turned back to my dear friend – he appeared to be safely on the wrong track last I heard two days ago from him, targeting the elusive man he had seen on the moor (which was actually I).

Little did I know how much danger he was in at that moment, a fact for which I shall never forgive myself.

I jerked my head up suddenly as there was a pattering of light footsteps hurrying up the path, and my little lad Cartwright came barreling in, completely out of breath.


	79. Brilliant

_This one's for PGF, who wanted to see Holmes climb a tree…_

* * *

"Don't be ridiculous, Holmes! You'll break your neck!"

"Oh, really, Watson," he glared at me, "I am perfectly capable of performing such a feat."

"I don't doubt your ability to get _up_ there, it's the _descending_ that I am wary of!"

"Would you rather we wander around in this forest until we either die of starvation or someone finds us?"

"You won't be able to get high enough anyway."

"I'll be the judge of that. Now come on, give me a boost, Watson."

"If you break your neck, I'm not going to be responsible!" I warned, cupping my hands as he got a firm grip on the lowest branch.

"If I do, then I leave the sitting room and its back-rent to you. Now heave."

"You had _better_ not stick me with unpaid bills, Holmes," I grunted.

He stepped into my hands, hoisting himself up, then disappeared into the leafy foliage above me, bits of bark showering down on my head as he made his way to the top of the tree. Honestly, he was going to break something, I knew he was…

Two long legs suddenly slithered down to drop in front of me, knocking a dead branch onto my head. I shook it off, glaring at Holmes who was fidgeting nervously.

"Well?"

"We…are lost."

"Holmes. That is positively brilliant."


	80. Bring

_EchoValley26809 has given me very kind permission to take a few of the sentences from the recent fic, __**Forty Years, Fifty Sentences**__ and use them as ideas for drabbles. This is based on number 17:_

_17. Formal_

_Never once did they refer to each other by their first names, but nowhere else in London were 'Holmes' or 'Watson' uttered with such intimate care._

* * *

I felt my brows knit as I stood silently, watching the Doctor check Sherlock's pulse for the dozenth time with a rather unsteady hand, examining his wounded shoulder. I was glad that insufferably impersonal surgeon had left the remainder of the work to Watson; he was the only man I would trust to look after that reckless brother I called mine.

I started forward as I saw Sherlock's eyelids shiver for the first time and he moved his head slightly. In an instant the Doctor was sitting on the bed, holding my brother's hands tightly, his voice shaking more than his grip.

And as I saw Sherlock respond to his voice, whispering his name, I slumped back with relief. He would be fine, then.

But I turned a rather interesting fact over in my mind – those two had known each other for over sixteen years now, and were closer than Sherlock and I had ever been. Why the deuce did they still hold fast to that formal habit of addressing each other by their last names?

"Watson, what –" my brother moaned feebly.

"Shh, Holmes, you have to rest now," the Doctor interrupted gently, pulling the blankets up round him.

It appeared that that old-fashioned formality had brought a sense of affection to them that no first name ever could bring.


	81. Boredom

The whistle blasted a shrill warning as we jumped aboard. Holmes flopped into the seat across from me and I gingerly sat, my leg paining me from our dangerous night and mad sprint up the platform.

Holmes's keen eyes scrutinised me.

"All right, Watson?"

I nodded breathlessly and leaned my head back against the seat. In the four years I had spent so far in his company I still was not used to these all-night vigils, invariably ending in one of us being injured – thankfully that had not happened this time.

As the rhythmic swaying of the train increased, I reflected pensively – what would my life be like had Stamford not introduced the two of us?

I shuddered, not wishing to think of the meaningless existence I would be living had that been the case. Better to have these tiring nights, even the ones I spent watching over my friend's sickbed, than what could so easily have been but for a chance meeting four years ago.

I glanced at Holmes; he was watching me with a fond smile.

"I see we've been thinking along parallel lines, my dear fellow," he interpreted my expressions, reading my thoughts as usual.

I returned the smile, settling back and closing my eyes, thanking kind Fate for saving us both from a life of lonely boredom.


	82. Bitter

_Many thanks to Saru Wolfe, who sent this 221B bunny hopping my direction..._

* * *

I summoned the most intimidating glare I could manage in my helpless condition as he entered the room, a wicked gleam of amusement in his eyes, drawing an evil pleasure from my distress.

I swallowed hard, my mouth going dry at the thought of what he was going to do to me. I choked down a lump of rising panic in my throat, trying desperately to think of an outlet of escape. There was only the one door and he stood between me and it; I was completely helpless, trapped – and in my weakened state I would be no physical match for him if I even attempted to escape.

My eyes darted to the window – shut and locked; besides, he would be able to reach me before I ever got close. I clenched my jaw, willing some semblance of control over my nerves as the man rummaged through the valise, selecting the instrument of torture I had been dreading.

I quelled down a rush of panic as he approached with the gleaming instrument, trying to put on the bravest face possible as he drew nearer…nearer…

"Honestly, Holmes, it's just a spoonful of cough syrup," he sighed in annoyance.

I would have snorted derisively had my nasal passages not been blocked completely.

"**JUST** cough syrub?? Wadson, I've never tasted anythig that bitter!"


	83. Beneficiary

_This is another of **EchoValley26809's** sentences adapted to a ficlet._

_38. Forever_

_They both made out their wills, each leaving everything to the other, for, as they couldn't comprehend a world without their friend, they had simply assumed each would go on forever._

* * *

"Well, go ahead, Sherlock. And stop that fidgeting, you're making me nervous just watching you," I snapped irritably, glaring at my restless younger brother.

He halted the twitching and turned his attentions to the napkin-ring in front of him. I sighed tolerantly, leaning back.

"Well, I came to discuss –"

"Some legal matters, I can deduce that perfectly well, Sherlock. Now do cease beating around the bush and tell me what that sheaf of papers is all about," I growled, "I must return to Whitehall within the hour."

My brother yanked the papers from his pocket and rather nervously tossed them to me. I leafed through them, perusing each briefly.

"So you are changing your will? Why should you come to me about the matter?"

"Do you approve?"

"If I did not, would you change it back?"

"Certainly not."

"Then why ask me, Sherlock?"

My younger sibling flushed in embarrassment, which amused me considering the circumstances.

"Are you _offended_, I suppose is a more accurate term, Mycroft."

"Should I be?"

I so loved seeing him squirm under the unfamiliarity of emotion normally so foreign to him.

"Confound it, Mycroft!"

I smiled and tossed the papers back to him.

"Sherlock. Of course I am not offended. It is only natural that the person you care for the most should be your beneficiary."


	84. Best

I shivered, turning my collar up, trying to block the water that had splashed out of a gutter-spout onto my already soaked head, drenching the last remaining dry parts of me.

I was soaked to the skin, freezing cold, altogether miserable. Why the devil did doctors always get called out on the vilest nights to bedside vigils?

I'd walked the whole way and had never felt so relieved to see 221b, stumbling up the stairs silently – 'twas past one a.m. and I was freezing, wanting only to slip between the blankets and die to the world.

My teeth were chattering by the time I reached my cold bedroom, opening the door with a shaking hand. I fumbled into dry clothing, shivering miserably, then a knock sounded and a sleepy Holmes poked his head in, clad in dressing-gown and holding a steaming drink.

"What the devil was wrong with the man?" he murmured, "you were gone for seven hours."

"B-bad attack of inf-fluenza." I took the drink gratefully, trembling with chill.

Holmes's sharp grey eyes ran over me appraisingly.

"You're freezing."

"I'm f-fine," I muttered, finishing the drink, "but why the devil did they call _me_ and not a closer physician!"

Holmes pulled an extra blanket from my wardrobe, glancing at me only briefly while spreading it on the bed.

"Obviously they wanted the best."


	85. Bed II

_Due to Rabidsamfan's request for more angst, this continues from #84._

* * *

It was past eleven when I finally bestirred myself next morning, having been woken from my fireside doze when Watson came back late from that call.

He appeared to be still abed, which was odd even for him – he must be more tired than he had looked last night.

I poured some coffee and was stirring it when there was a loud crash in the hall. Thinking Mrs. Hudson had dropped a tray, I rolled my eyes and opened the door – only to stop short in alarm.

"Watson! Are you all right?"

He had apparently tripped or fallen – I suspected the latter from his dazed expression. His medical bag, left in the hall last night, was lying half-open beside him as he pushed himself up, face flushing with embarrassment as I helped him to his feet.

"Yes, I'm fine – just dizzy – for a minute," he gasped, rubbing his eyes.

"Are you ill?" I asked sharply, not liking the glazed look I saw therein.

"I – don't know – I was coming down to – get my thermometer," he said faintly, swaying unsteadily on his feet, then suddenly leaning rather heavily into me.

"It doesn't take any deduction to see you're unwell, my dear fellow," I said gently as he feebly resisted my pushing him into my own bedroom and settling him on my bed.


	86. Bedsides

_Continuing from 85:_

* * *

"No, Holmes – bad idea," he grasped my arm as I retrieved an afghan and spread it over him.

"What is, old chap?"

"Your bed – it's probably – that influenza," he said weakly, "germs –"

"It's all right, Watson," I reassured him, my brow furrowing as he shivered, curling up miserably under the blankets.

"But you won't have anywhere to sleep," he whispered.

"I shall manage. Besides, you are obviously in no condition to be tramping up-and-downstairs and I certainly would rather sleep on the couch than have to _carry_ you."

I was rewarded by a weak chuckle as he took his own temperature. Finally he removed the instrument and looked at it, his face falling.

"Must have gotten it last night," he moaned, setting the thermometer back.

"How high is it?" I asked sharply, knowing how serious influenza could be.

"Not very, just enough to be miserable."

"What can I do?"

"Leave me to die in peace," he moaned, burrowing into the covers, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I believe I can manage that."

As I straightened the blankets and dimmed the gas, I heard the whisper of a laugh under the covers at my pretended callousness.

But even so, I stayed with him until he fell asleep, wondering how doctors could stay sane after so many worried hours spent at sufferers' bedsides.


	87. Brusquely

I had dozed off in my chair, my head upon my chest, when his sudden movements startled me awake again and I snapped upright with a start, glancing at the clock – nearly dark.

He had been either motionless or violently ill all day, poor chap, alternating between restless, fevered dreams and painfully embarrassing sickness, and I believe we were _both_ exhausted by this point in the evening.

His restless moving about had woken me again, and I felt my brows knit as I watched him murmur unconsciously in his sleep; his face was flushed, the fever must be up again. I dampened a cloth in the cold water from the pitcher, laying it very gently on his forehead so as not to waken him, and was glad to see him quiet under my touch, at least for a while.

Just then I heard a light rapping on the door – probably Mrs. Hudson. The good woman had been most insistent earlier about the virtues of hot chicken soup, but poor Watson had groaned at the very thought and turned deathly pale so she had dropped the subject hastily.

"It's a client to see you, Mr. Holmes," she whispered.

"Tell him I am already engaged on a case."

"He is most insistent –"

"My present client is far more important," I snapped brusquely.


	88. Beaming

__

This is taking on a life of its own, methinks...

* * *

I was having a spot of trouble balancing that steaming bowl on the tray and climbing those steps. But I managed it somehow, and whether he wanted to or not the Doctor was going to eat something; even if he only kept it down for a minute or two it had to be better than nothing.

Having tenants like those boys made it nigh impossible to be a heavy sleeper in my house, so I'd heard Mr. Holmes pacing about all night long in that bedroom, bless him. Last I had seen the poor man looked right sickly himself, not to mention the Doctor, and this was the third day the poor man had been ill.

I balanced the tray with one hand and knocked on the door with the other. No answer. I pushed the door open a bit and peeked in.

The Doctor was awake, blinking in the morning light and looking a sight better than last evening.

And Mr. Holmes was dead asleep, collapsed across the side of the bed.

The Doctor was looking at him, smiling fondly and trying to wriggle his arm out from under Mr. Holmes's head without waking him.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," he whispered softly, giving up the effort, "that soup smells wonderful."

"It is indeed a good morning, Doctor," I replied, beaming.


	89. Blazes II

_Only one or two more, I believe. Down, plot bunny!_

* * *

I pulled the thermometer from his mouth and inspected it with narrowed eyes.

"101," I sighed, placing the instrument on the table and pulling up the blankets once more round his shivering form.

"Blast it all!"

"It is your own fault."

"Yes, I should have quarantined you for the duration – taken a holiday in the country until you were over it! This is a _fine_ way to repay my taking care of you for the last four days!"

Holmes's cranky outburst dissolved into a low whimper as he shut his eyes tightly in complete misery. My heart really did go out to him, for he had indeed cared for me during my illness with a gentle compassion I had no idea lay hidden in that formidable nature.

"I'm sorry, old chap," I said sincerely, very worried about him despite my bantering words.

He murmured something indistinguishable, shivering again. I got another blanket and tucked it close round him, hoping his bout with the influenza was not going to be as virulent as mine had been, for both our sakes.

"You really _should_ have stayed away, you know," I said softly as I put a supporting hand on his trembling shoulders as the chills started to grow worse.

"Don't be an idiot."

"I'm not, I'm being logical."

"Logic can go to blazes."


	90. Blankets

_Last one, just for fun - and in answer to a 'challenge' by Mini Librarian:_

* * *

I was performing a hasty toilette on the third day when I heard Holmes's voice frantically calling for me from his bedroom. I dashed down the stairs and came to a flying stop in the room.

He was resting comfortably, and I relaxed slightly.

"What's the matter?" I asked softly, checking his temperature.

"I'm delirious," he said in a dull voice, looking pleadingly at me as if asking me to agree with his self-diagnosis.

"You're perfectly lucid, Holmes," I soothed, straightening the tangled covers, "you cannot be delirious with such a low fever."

"But I _am_, I tell you!" he fretted, "tell me I am, Watson!"

"Whatever for?"

He closed his eyes, shuddering.

"That – _mouse_ – is talking to me again!"

I turned with annoyance to the bedside table to see that he was quite correct.

"Basil, get out of here – this is a sickroom!" I said in exasperation, "Hasn't Dawson told you to not bother a man when he's ill?"

"My apologies, Doctor," the creature said repentantly, "I just wanted to wish your friend a speedy recovery."

"Well shoo. You can talk to him when he's well."

The mouse nodded, disappearing under a floorboard.

"It's all right, he's gone now, Holmes."

"You were _talking _to him!"

"He's a very nice little chap."

"Oooh," he moaned, burying his head in the blankets.


	91. Beach

_Added scene to _**_Broken and Buried._**

* * *

I shoved the last valise into the trap and Roundhay took it from me, strapping it in. I took a moment to catch my breath and let the pain in my shoulder subside before looking round to see where Holmes had got to.

Roundhay leaned down, tapping me on the shoulder with his riding crop and gesturing to the path leading to the beach. At my raised eyebrow he nodded and sat back with an amiable smile to wait.

I found Holmes standing on the beach, running the toe of his boot through the sand, glancing about him as if trying to see the whole landscape in one last brilliant observation. For a moment I stood behind him silently, not wanting to break into his intimate thoughts, but after a moment he motioned me up beside him as he stood gazing over the beautiful water and surf and sand.

"We can always come back if you wish it, you know," I said softly.

He smiled a little and glanced at me.

"There is no need," he replied confidently.

His hand had come to rest upon my shoulder as he spoke, and for a long while we stood motionless, fixing the scene in our minds for future remembrance.

Then we turned together and left forever what was buried on that Cornish beach.


	92. Bother

_Thanks again to __**EchoValley26809 **__for allowing me to use another sentence:_

_10. Run_

_Holmes appreciates speed, getting to the scene quickly, and he mercilessly mocks Lestrade and Mycroft for not being so fleet of foot, but he says nothing the day Watson, limping badly, asks him to slow down._

* * *

"Inspector, move a little faster?" I growled, "we have to get there in ten minutes or we shall leave without a clue as to Aston's departure."

I heard a curse behind me – obviously Lestrade did not appreciate being told to move. But we had to hurry – I needed that information before we left!

I glanced back – then stopped suddenly, seeing Lestrade ask Watson something quietly. Though he nodded, I could see his face was flushed, filled with pain, and he was limping badly.

Cursing my lack of perception, I closed the distance between us.

"I'm – fine. Just – have to – slow down a bit."

"Go on, Lestrade, find out what you can about Aston," I snapped, moving Watson's hand to grip my arm as he was far too proud to do it on his own.

Lestrade grumbled but raced ahead while I pulled back, realising from how heavily Watson was leaning on me just how badly he was hurting.

"I'm – sorry, Holmes," he murmured, breathing better as I slowed our pace to a walk.

"I am the one who should apologise, Doctor – I should not have brought you out in such weather so soon," I said softly.

"I hate – I'm slowing you down," he said, flushing embarrassedly, "it – has to be – bothersome."

"Watson, honestly. As if you could _ever_ become a bother."


	93. Before II

_These mice won't stay out of my head..._

* * *

"Dr. Watson?"

One of the curses of living with the world's noisiest private detective was that one learnt to be an exceptionally light sleeper, unless one wished to be awoken by various methods including pitchers of ice water.

This was no exception. I rolled over and opened my eyes – realising there was no one there!

I sat up confusedly to see the speaker, relieved to find I was not hearing things.

"I'm sorry to waken you like this, Doctor."

"It's all right, Dawson – what on earth's the matter?"

The mouse's furry face was worried, as much as a rodent's expression is possible to be.

"It's Basil, Dr. Watson – he's contracted a severe cold and I confess to being out of tonic," he said sheepishly, "and as you are closer than the apothecary's down the street –"

I sighed but got into my dressing gown, putting the mouse in my pocket, going to the sitting room to find my cough syrup.

A door creaked open behind me and Holmes's voice sounded sleepily.

"Wha's wrong, Wats'n? You ill?"

"No, the mouse needs cough syrup," I said absently, digging through my bag.

There was a pause, and then his voice came again, fully alert this time.

"What mouse?"

"The one in my pocket."

"The one… Watson. Have you ever been prone to sleepwalking before?"


	94. A Burden

_Missing scene from **Powers of Evil.**_

* * *

"The path moves left here, Mr. Holmes – watch that edge," Lestrade called.

We staggered along for a minute or two in silence. Then Watson's grip round my shoulders started to slip, his knees buckling under him, and he gave a faint gasp, his eyes fluttering closed.

He was still shivering violently under my coat, and I hastily caught him as he stumbled, falling heavily into my arms.

"Easy, old chap. On your feet," I said gently.

"S-so c-cold," he said faintly, trembling in my arms.

"We're nearly out, Watson, just hang on for a bit longer."

"C-can't," he whispered feebly, shivering.

"Yes, you can," I soothed, glancing up at Lestrade's worried eyes above the lantern, "I'm right here. Now come on, old fellow, move your feet. That's it."

He obediently stumbled along, making it a few yards before his legs buckled again. I took his weight while he struggled to get his feet under him, his whole frame shaking with weakness.

"I-I'm s-sorry," I heard his faint whisper and felt my eyes sting.

"It's all right, Watson."

"But I–I'm being such a b-burden, if only I –"

"Shhh, now stop it – this is Stapleton's fault, not any of yours," I said, my voice tight.

"B-but –"

"And besides, Watson," I went on, more softly, "you will _never_ be a burden."


	95. Broken II

Another crash when I reached the landing caused me to nearly spill the sandwiches. I sighed, pushing the sitting room door open, wary of any objects that might come flying at my head.

"No, no, Watson. Block, thrust, parry. Like this."

Mr. Holmes was apparently trying to teach the doctor how to fence, judging from their positions.

"Try it again. Head, Watson – here now!"

The doctor had swatted him with – what were they using, umbrellas?

"That's an illegal move!"

"You're in the way, Holmes," he said, pointing the umbrella at me.

I just then saw the remains of the teapot under the table.

"Mr. Holmes! Doctor!"

My dismayed exasperation was suddenly overcome by a near-uncontrollable urge to laugh, as both of them dropped the umbrellas and backed away from me, scooting closer to each other, looking for all the world like two errant school-boys called up before the headmaster.

"Mrs. Hudson, I can explain –"

"I don't want to know, Doctor," I stated, "you may decide between yourselves who is going to pay for it."

And I left the room, shutting the door but standing there for a moment, listening.

"I _told_ you we were going to break something!"

I smiled broadly. No need to tell them I never gave them any chinaware that I was not _expecting_ to get broken.


	96. Bow

I watched in amusement as Mr. Holmes ran a finger round his collar, perching stiffly on the edge of his seat.

"You will no doubt have deduced, I am not here to be observed, Mr. Holmes," I said amusedly.

He coloured, sitting back. "Then pray tell me what I can do for you, Miss Morstan. Watson is not –"

"I know. I am here to see you, Mr. Holmes."

"About what, pray?"

"About John."

I saw a trace of pain flit across his face before he erased it hastily – I had been right, then.

"Mr. Holmes, I do hope you will not cut all ties with John after we are married."

He looked at me quizzically.

"I promise you, I shan't ever stand in the way if the two of you wish to go traipsing about the city on those adventures," I said, smiling, "John is not the type to stay comfortably at home for extended periods of time, and I want you to know that I am fully prepared to relinquish my claim on him occasionally."

I saw relief flood the detective's suddenly unguarded face, and he stood with a small smile.

"Watson was right," said he, walking me to the door.

"About what?"

"You really are one of the most remarkable of women," he replied with a respectful bow.


	97. Happy Birthday

_This is a double 221B (442 words), a birthday gift to **Kaizoku Shojo**. Happy Birthday, Kai, and many of them. :D_

* * *

_Phhhzzzzzt!_

"Alfie, stop that!" I said in exasperation, yanking the noisemaker out of the lad's little hands with a warning look.

Two green eyes met mine with a puppy-like glance, pleading with me.

"No. Wiggins, stay out of that cake!"

The ragged lieutenant skipped guiltily away from the table, and I ran a hand tiredly through my hair with a sigh.

"Why the devil did I let you boys talk me into doing this?"

"'Cause yer a reg'lar brick, tha's wot yew are, Doctor," Wiggins said, peeking out the window watchfully.

"As dense as one too sometimes," I said wearily, pulling Alfie down off the back of Holmes's armchair as he teetered, trying to reach a stray balloon.

The lad looked pleadingly at me and jumped for the string, which still dangled just out of his reach. I pulled it down with a sigh, handing it to him.

"D'yew think ee'll be 'appy, Doctor?"

"That depends on whether that trial brought in the verdict he was hoping for, Alfie," I said absently, shooing another of the urchins away from the punch.

"Blimey! Scarper, lads, 'e's 'ere!" Wiggins shrilled from the window.

I nearly laughed but I was too tired to do so, as the half-dozen ragtag boys suddenly disappeared behind various articles of furniture. Holmes's strident voice was in evidence on the stairs and then the hall, bellowing in an apparently good temper at Mrs. Hudson.

Suddenly I heard a loud noise behind me, and I turned in time to see the entire fold of drapes come crashing down on me amid a very frightened squeal from Alfie, who had been hiding therein.

As I was trying to disentangle myself, I heard the door open and Holmes's footsteps stopped. I jerked my head free of the fabric, glaring at the Irregular, who was snickering sheepishly. Holmes stared at us and the other lads who were peeping out from behind the chairs and then nearly fell over, so hard was he laughing.

"I'm going to kill you, Alfie," I hissed.

"Meh, yew know yew won', Doctor," he returned cheerfully.

"Try me!"

"Watson, c-calm down," Holmes gasped, wiping his eyes and coming over to give me a hand up out of the fallen drapes.

"I claim absolutely no responsibility for this…mess," I said breathlessly as he hauled me to my feet.

Alfie launched himself from the drapes finally, heading for the cake and followed by a bunch of whooping Irregulars. I glanced wearily at Holmes, who was still trying desperately to stop laughing. He clapped me on the shoulder and grinned fondly.

"My dear Watson, I must thank you for a most entertaining birthday."


	98. Blackness

_Spoilers for **That Whiter Host.**_

* * *

"Alfie, I swear, if you throw one more snowball at me, I am going to –"

My irritation at the lad's antics was cut short by a dull thumping of hooves, muffled by the heavy snow, and a moment later a saddled chestnut horse came trotting into the courtyard, ambling along aimlessly and without a rider.

" 'Ere now, what the –"

I glanced at my little Irregular, who was squinting at the animal. Suddenly his little face turned pale under the freckles and he tugged on my coat urgently.

"Mr. 'Olmes!"

"What is it, Alfie?"

"Tha's the 'orse the Doctor was ridin' earlier this afternoon!" he said worriedly, pointing as the animal ambled up the path.

I felt an icy chill run over me at his words, and not from the dropping temperature.

"Are you certain?" I demanded.

"Blimey, yes! Wha' d'yew s'pose happened, Mr. 'Olmes?"

"I don't know," I whispered hoarsely, "but wait here."

"But Mr. 'Olmes!"

But I had already taken off at a dead run for the castle stables to get a fresh horse – that chestnut looked ready to drop.

Something was very wrong.

But so frantic was I that I did not see a very determined little boy sneak out of the castle courtyard, following the hoofprints out into the drifting snow and gathering blackness.


	99. Bavaria

_Since you all wanted it (and I didn't have time to write a completely new 221B idea), here are more spoilers for **That Whiter Host. **Thank PGF for this - I only edited part of her chapter down to 221 words; it doesn't belong to me. :)_

_Coming **June 12 **(unless PGF is delayed coming back):_

* * *

"Dr. Watson, this is Mr. Renie Haight."

The lad grinned, extending his hand.

"Hullo Doctor, I've heard much about you."

"A pleasure…forgive me, but I recall your name from somewhere..."

Haight shot Lachlan a knowing glance.

"Aye, Doctor. This scrapper here's the pest who's been trailing me for a year. Finally got tired of havin' a tail and let him tag along so I can keep an eye on him."

I glanced at Haight with respect.

"Your reporter?"

"The same," Lachlan said, this time not repressing a fond smile.

"My paper's assigned me to Lachlan," the lad said. "I've already –"

But his story was interrupted by a sudden squeal.

"**OI**!"

A small ginger-haired missile exploded out of the crowd and launched itself at Lachlan's knees.

"Oi remember yew, gov'! Yew t'were the one wot saved Mr. 'Olmes!"

Lachlan staggered slightly under Alfie's impact and Haight laughed.

Then our attentions were drawn by another shout, and Holmes strode toward us, his coat flapping open, face lit with rare delight.

In a moment he was wringing the seaman's hand.

"Midshipman!"

"Mr. Holmes!"

Holmes clapped the sailor on the back, grey eyes dancing.

"You have been unforgivably lax in your promise of updates, my good man - it won't do. I demand a full report of your activities before we depart for Bavaria."


	100. Bronchitis

I shrugged off my coat as I blew through the hall, pounding up the seventeen steps and then up another flight.

Slightly breathless, I gently pushed open Watson's bedroom door and entered.

Hazel eyes fluttered open at the sound, lighting up when he saw me.

"When – did you get back?" he whispered hoarsely, a harsh sound that bespoke of serious abuse to his throat.

"Don't talk," I admonished worriedly as I bent over him, seeing how feverishly flushed his face was, "only just."

"Mrs. Hudson," he whispered.

"Yes, she telegraphed me."

His brows knitted, obviously distressed.

"I should have been very angry with you both had she not," I said sternly. "What is it?"

"Laryngitis," he mouthed, grimacing.

"I'm going to shoot Lestrade," I growled, "what the devil was he thinking, asking you to go tramping about in a driving thunderstorm!"

"You weren't here," came the silent words.

"The bloody idiot! I've a mind to go straight down to Scotland Yard and throttle the fool!"

The corners of Watson's eyes crinkled in a fond smile as he patted my hand.

"You can't see him," he mouthed.

I clasped his hand tightly, seeing the pain he was concealing.

"Whyever not?" I asked, more calmly.

I saw a faint gleam of amusement in his eyes as he again silently formed the words.

"_He's_ home with bronchitis."


	101. Bay

_You all know we've Fanonically placed Watson as having a fear of water...I was working yesterday and this idea hit me, wondering what Holmes might possibly be afraid of (if anything)and why. I should think that if anything, it's this:_

* * *

"What a gorgeous view!"

"Drivel," my companion groused.

Something sparkled below us; I walked to the sea-cliff's edge (I had never been afraid of heights) and peered down.

"There's something glittering, Holmes, you see it?"

He remained a safe distance back.

"Can't see anything."

"You'll have to get closer," I said, peering over the brink.

"Get back, Watson!" he snapped, grasping my arm, yanking me back with an unreasonable force.

"What the devil's wrong with you?" I demanded when he backed away hastily.

"Nothing!"

Not so, for I could see barely controlled fear in his expressive eyes.

And I remembered that not once, all week, had he ventured close to the edge as I had.

"You're afraid of heights."

His lips pressed together thinly.

"I'm not."

But he was, I could see it. And I suddenly realised why.

"My apologies, Holmes," I spoke softly.

He said nothing, staring over the water.

"Would you believe how many times I've gone over those cursed Falls in my dreams?" he asked finally.

"Probably as many as I've _watched_ you in mine," I returned gently, gripping his shoulder.

He stiffened, then relaxed slowly.

"Just – stay away from that edge, will you?"

"Of course."

"Thank you."

"There no shame in a fear that well-founded, Holmes," I said after a moment.

"No?"

"No," I sighed, glancing meaningfully out at the deep bay.


	102. Snowbank

_A gift for **Pebbles66**, who requested the angst to continue (continued from the first spoiler for **TWH**). And in case anyone's worried, this is the extent of what will happen to Watson in the story. Now_ Holmes_, on the other hand..._

* * *

"C'mon, Doctor, wake up!"

That small, scared voice slowly filtered through my senses again. But it was so cold…

"Please, Doctor!" it pleaded again, shaking me.

A hot pain shot through me and I gasped, feeling fire shoot through my shoulder before turning back to that icy numbness. The voice called again, encouraged by my response, and I finally forced my eyes open – seeing nothing but blurry whiteness.

"Tha's it, Doctor!"

I blinked the snow out of my vision and saw two worried green eyes staring at me. Wanting to reassure the child, I started to sit up – only to fall back into the snow with a choked cry, my head throbbing and spinning.

Alfie flinched, patting my arm uncertainly.

"Doctor, wha' happened?"

"Thrown – f-from the horse," I managed to choke out.

He ran his mittened hands along my arms and legs, actually very capably checking for broken bones.

"Don' look loike yew busted anythin', Doctor – what 'urts?" he asked, his lips trembling.

"My – s-shoulder, Alfie, and –" I struggled my breath through my chattering teeth, "a-and my head. Landed on-n them - I think."

The sturdy lad pulled off his scarf and gently tucked it round my neck as I shivered, my head spinning.

"Thank you," I whispered, closing my eyes as he began to dig me out of the snow-bank.

* * *

_**Yes, I cheated, but you can't just randomly stick a B word into an already-established chapter of spoilers (this is only an excerpt) and not sound stupid. :P**_

_**

* * *

**Also, I've had more than one person ask me if I am going to spin any of these off into full-length fics. I have no definite plans for any of them except 43 and 44 - so if you'd like to take one and do a story with it (except of course the spoilers for **That Whiter Host**), I'd be more than happy to give permission and I'll be the first to review!_


	103. Beekeeping

"Ouch! Confound it, Holmes!"

"If you would just hold still, it wouldn't hurt as much. One more – hold _still_, Watson! There, you see?"

"No, I can hardly see a thing," I moaned, trying not to touch the swollen area round my eye.

"This should help," Holmes said, his eyes worried despite his cavalier manner.

He took a small jar of some sticky white cream and dabbed it on the swollen area, patting my shoulder as I winced.

"There."

"What is that stuff, it smells awful."

"A concoction of my own making – you don't think I can spend my declining years without using those chemicals _occasionally_, do you?"

I glared at him out of my only usable eye, and his brows furrowed in concern.

"I'm sorry, Watson."

"You should be!"

"Well you shouldn't have gotten them so agitated!"

"_I_ got _them_ agitated!"

"Well you did!"

I moaned, slumping back on the couch, suppressing a hiss of pain as the inflamed area throbbed and burned.

"Isn't that cream helping at all?" Holmes asked, sitting beside me.

"Not much," I growled, rubbing carefully around the eye.

"I really am sorry," he said repentantly.

I sighed and rested my head on my arm, glancing over at his anxious face.

"Holmes. Out of all the retirement hobbies, why the devil did you have to choose _bee-_keeping?"


	104. Blackmail

_Greetings to you all from Protector of the Grey Fortress! This is a gift for her, since she has been reading these from halfway across the world bit by bit. She said yesterday that she liked the Watson-Dawson one, so here you go chum, and hope you're having a great time!_

* * *

I threw the file across my bedroom – Watson was right; there was no system to my organization. Confound him, he always knew exactly where everything was and I never could find anything!

I kicked a scrapbook against the wall, swearing at his blasted ability to clean up my messes. Where _was_ that file?

I started for my half-open door – pride was not worth being late with that file to meet Lestrade; I had to break down and ask Watson where it was.

But I stopped there. Watson was sitting at his desk, talking to himself; odd, for him.

"What's wrong with _The Black Pearl_?"

Why was he questioning himself?

"Nothing _wrong_ with it, Dr. Watson, but your case wasn't about the pearl – it was stolen far before Mr. Holmes found it."

I leaned against the doorway, silently moaning at the squeaky voice.

Watson frowned.

"What would you call it then? It's not like _The Affair of the Plaster Busts_ is very evocative either."

"Well, no," the small voice agreed. "But something like _The Six Napoleons_ is."

Watson frowned again, then nodded, scribbling in his confounded journal.

I stifled a laugh, backing away and closing the door. My Watson, getting writing advice from a _mouse_?

Oh, if the world only knew!

I must remember this – 'twould be extremely good material for blackmail!


	105. Bellowed

_Since everyone seems to be enjoying these as much as I am, here are more spoilers for **That Whiter Host**. Only 30 days!_

* * *

"Doctor!" a small voice filtered into my consciousness. I jerked awake and sat up.

"What the devil – Alfie, what's wrong?" I demanded, shivering as the frigid air penetrated the covers.

"There's a ghost i' my room, Doctor!" the lad whimpered, "Oi seen 'er, honest –"

"Saw whom?!"

"Tha' lady ghost the Count was tellin' yew an' Mr. 'Olmes about," he wailed, "oi woke up an' seen 'er floatin' roun' the ceilin'!"

"You were dreaming, Alfie," I murmured, wishing to heaven _I_ was.

"No, oi swear!" the boy cried, white-faced under his freckles. "Can oi stay 'ere wi' yew?"

"No, you may _not_," I admonished, donning my dressing gown, "you are too old for this nonsense. And if you dream about ghosts again, I shall tell Mr. Renie that he may not keep you up past eight for the remainder of our stay, understand?"

The lad scuffed a slippered toe and meekly followed me back to his room. I settled him into bed, but as I was pulling up the coverlet the lad's eyes suddenly shot over my head in terror.

"There she is ag'in, Doctor!" he wailed, diving under the covers as I whirled round, my eyes widening.

I did not recognise my own voice, so panicked was it, but I hoped it would carry down the corridor.

"HOLMES!" I bellowed.


	106. Brain

_The inspiration for this double 221B came after watching DANC, but it could have happened at any point in time._

* * *

I stared out the train window, watching the rain make gloomy splatters against the sooty glass. The dank atmosphere seemed to be in harmony with my state of mind, and I was hard pressed to not put my fist through the pane from sheer frustration at the injustice of the matter and my own utter failure.

I have never tolerated failure from others, much less myself.

As my frustration built up within my mind, like a kettle about to boil over with a burning hiss of scalding water, I could feel my jaw aching where it was clenched and my hands were following suit. Even the heavy rattle of the wheels on the rails seemed to beat out a steady death knell of defeat.

Finally I could take it no longer and angrily shoved from my seat, aiming for the compartment door.

Only to find it blocked by a familiar figure, arms folded, looking at me with concerned eyes.

"Sit down. _Now_."

I glared in response, and he caught me by the shoulders and pushed me back into my seat. I knew that if I fought, I was liable in my disturbed state to do him some physical harm without intending to, and so I sat without resistance.

"Look at me, Holmes," came the voice, firm and stern but soft with sympathy.

One of the three seemed to be oddly soothing, and I turned my gaze upward.

"You are _not_ infallible."

"That has been proven most definitely, Watson!" I snapped.

He returned my glare. "There was nothing more you could have done!"

"I could have been less slow and clumsy, and my client might still be alive!"

My voice was harsher than I had meant it to be, but I cared naught.

"You are not omniscient! Have a bit of faith in yourself!"

"Not now," I whispered, staring out the window.

I heard a long sigh, and I knew he had given up trying to convince me I was not to blame. For we both knew I had been; not wholly, but to some extent. Nothing could change that.

It _was_ my fault, in part at least.

I felt him sit beside me, and silence broken only by pouring rain filled the compartment. Then a hand came to rest lightly upon my shoulder.

"Well for what it's worth, _I_ shall never lose faith in you, Holmes. Failure or success, that will never change."

I kept my gaze toward the window, not knowing if the smeared glass was from the rain or my suddenly clouded vision.

It defied all logic, this unswerving loyalty.

Some mysteries were too much for even _my_ remarkable brain.

* * *

_And now, after that somewhat melancholy ficlet, I bring you news that may lift your spirits a bit._

_My co-author has found a block of time every day free which she is more than willing to use in writing. You all know what that means..._

_-dramatic pause-_

_You can expect **That Whiter Host **within a week or two - NOT in 30 days. :)_

_Feel free to flip out now, people - I certainly did when she told me!_

_And she did chew me out for being evil with the teasers, in case anyone is interested in a personal drama..._ D8


	107. Betting

_In answer to a somewhat random LiveJournal challenge by Kaizoku Shojo (make H&W discuss a tree):_

* * *

"I don't believe you."

"Nevertheless, I am correct, Watson."

"I doubt it."

"What, you don't think I know my plants?"

" _'Has no knowledge of practical gardening.'_ "

"I can't believe you still have that list memorised."

"You've never let a chance go by to throw it in my face, I should have it down by now. Besides, you're trying to change the subject."

"I'm not!"

"You are."

"I am not – I tell you I know exactly what it is."

"You're guessing."

"I never guess – shockingly destructive to the logical faculties."

"Yes, you've told me a thousand times. But I still say you're guessing."

Holmes's eyes gleamed.

"You're a gambler - would you like to wager on that?"

"With what?" I asked, ignoring (for now) the slur on my character.

"You buy the theatre tickets when we return from this walk, I choose the performance?"

"Done. I still say you're guessing – you can't possibly recognise this tree if you couldn't even identify Mrs. Hudson's tulips last spring!"

"You're adamant on that?"

"Quite. I'll go get an identification book and prove you wrong!"

"Don't bother," Holmes replied with a wicked smirk, gesturing with his stick to a placard I had not seen, laughing at my dismay.

"_Silver birch_. That's unfair, Holmes!"

"My dear Watson, you really must learn to control your betting."


	108. Brandy

_I couldn't help it - combination of watching GMD and then EMPT yesterday set this plot bunny gnawing at me and it wouldn't be satisfied._

* * *

"WATSON!"

I jumped as Holmes's alarmed voice rang through the house. Even had it not been filled with a note of panic it still would have startled me, not having heard it for three years until yesterday afternoon.

I dashed into the sitting room to find my friend standing by the fireplace, looking rather frantic and holding his hands cupped together.

"What's the matter?" I demanded breathlessly, starting towards him.

He glanced from his hands to me and flushed uncomfortably.

"Erm, Watson, I – I am in need of your assistance," he said nervously.

"With what?"

"A slight – _problem_, most definitely your department," Holmes replied, extending his cupped hands to me.

I glanced down, then raised my eyebrows and looked at him.

"What happened?"

"I've no idea – I came in to light my pipe and he was there on the mantelpiece – next thing I knew he was falling off it, I barely caught him before he was in the fire!"

Holmes's face was filled with a rather endearing worry as he glanced from our motionless little friend back to me.

"Well, what do you do for a mouse that's fainted?"

I frowned, thinking. Holmes's eyes darted to the sideboard questioningly, but I shook my head.

"No, Holmes. I'm afraid my medical experience doesn't include the effects of filling a rodent with brandy."


	109. And Blush

_Continued from the last:_

* * *

Holmes hovered nervously around as I carefully used an eyedropper to splash Basil's face with water after we had put him on a pillow.

"Honestly, Holmes."

"I didn't _mean_ to startle him!"

The mouse suddenly spluttered, shaking his wet fur and sitting up groggily.

"What the – " Basil stopped with a gasp, his beady eyes suddenly fastening upon Holmes.

"Easy there, old chap," I said, trying desperately not to smile, "he's not a ghost."

"I must apologise for my weakness, gentlemen – but I wasn't expecting to see a dead man standing in front of me when I turned round!"

"You weren't the only one who fainted upon seeing him," I said dryly, "he's made a most annoying habit of seeing how close he can get a fellow to a heart attack."

"So I see," the mouse gasped, rubbing his furry head.

"Are you all right, Basil?"

I was surprised to hear Holmes address the little chap directly – usually he left the rodent-speaking to me.

"No thanks to you, Mr. Holmes!" he snapped, "where the devil have you _been_ for three years? Letting everyone think you were dead – how _dare_ you!"

I shouted with laughter as Basil lit into Holmes with an ire that even _I_ would never have shown.

It was always amusing to see Sherlock Holmes simultaneously squirm and blush.


	110. FloorBoard

_I hadn't planned on continuing this, but since I had absolutely no free time to think of a fresh idea **and** I do try to answer requests, this is for ArianneG._

* * *

"Of all the inconsiderate, self-centred – _**men**_ –"

I leaned back, smiling and watching Basil stand, pointing a furry finger (did mice have fingers?) in Holmes's face, giving him a right proper dressing-down.

I heard a soft thump and the mouse's friend landed beside me.

"G-good gracious!"

"Easy, Dawson," I chuckled, "he's not dead, see? Basil had the same reaction I did to seeing Holmes."

"W-what's that?"

"He fainted."

"_Basil?_?"

"Mmhm."

Finally Basil had to stop and breathe, his tiny shoulders heaving.

"Are you quite finished?" Holmes growled.

"For now, yes," Basil snorted, grabbing the drapes and sliding to the floor.

"Wait – where are you going?"

I grinned – Holmes was actually talking to him, bending over awkwardly, following the mouse across our carpet.

"I've a client waiting, Mr. Holmes," Basil said icily, "some of us had to _work_ for a living the last three years!"

Dawson tugged on my coat, and I set him in front of his friend as Holmes winced, spluttering.

"Now see here, Basil –"

The mouse broke into an unexpected snicker, rubbing his wet head with a tiny handkerchief Dawson handed him.

"Whatever happened to 'I don't talk to mice', Mr. Holmes?" he smirked, glancing up at me with a beady wink.

Holmes's face turned another shade of scarlet.

Basil hooted and then disappeared under a loose floor-board.


	111. Bad Combo

_Everyone knows I can't resist a good bandwagon...thanks to Pompey for letting me hop on for a bit._

_I forgot not everyone reads everything on this site like I do :) - so for those of you who haven't read Pompey's latest few 'Things that Never Happened', you need to else you won't understand this. And while you're at it, check out Chewing Gum's last 221B as well._

* * *

I stopped on the doorstep, staring at the droopy-eared hound that was mournfully gazing at me.

"Toby, why are –"

I shook myself sternly – talking regularly to cats was beginning to make me believe every animal could speak.

I sighed, opening the door, grabbing Toby's collar with my free hand. But before I could tighten my grip he ripped free and bounded up the stairs, growling.

"Holmes, look out!" I shouted frantically, pounding after the canine into the sitting-room.

Holmes had made it up the drapes, thanks to my warning, and was hissing at Toby, now worrying at a black tail protruding from under the sofa.

Ginger-cat on the mantel watched with a smirk.

"Stuck, Mycroft?" He yawned, glancing at the tubby feline wedged under the couch.

Toby yipped, looked at me for approval.

"Watson, get him out of here!" Holmes's claws swiped angrily at my hat as I passed the window.

I grabbed the offending paw. "_Don't_ put claw marks into my hat, or I'll take you to a shelter!"

His hissing was drowned by a wail from the sofa; Toby had nipped Mycroft's tail when it lashed his face.

Moriarty-cat yawned again. "Entertaining," he drawled, shedding a cloud of hair.

"Let's see how entertaining you find _this_," I snapped, grabbing the yowling monster, dropping him squarely on Toby's bristling back.


	112. Boys

_Grr, this would have been up last night but...got to love those 'temporary technical glitches' that last far longer than 'a few minutes'. Anyhow, another double-221B, more spoilers for **That Whiter Host** - a bit more lighthearted this time._

* * *

"Alfie! Stop that!"

Holmes's voice was sharp with cold and irritation as he glared at the lad, who was busily packing snowballs, chucking them at anything that caught his fancy.

"He's not hurting anything, Holmes," I protested, glancing at the lad's cherry-red cheeks under green eyes, sparkling with daredevil mischief.

Perhaps I'd spoken too soon…

Yes, I had. A snowball came flying through the air, perfectly aimed, and sent my hat flying fifteen feet away.

"Young man, you are _so_ going to regret that!" I called to Alfie, who was doubled over, laughing.

Holmes paused in his deep contemplation to snicker briefly before resuming his pacing.

I bent down to retrieve the hat, only to be hit again with a snowball – this time directly in the face.

I spluttered, dashing the snow from my mustache, and saw Alfie dancing about a few feet away, another missile poised and ready.

So I did the first thing that came to mind.

He shrieked loud enough to be heard inside the castle when I tackled him, shoving snow into his little face before scrambling up and standing at bay.

Alfie's face was a picture of childish glee as he launched another snowball at me. This time his aim was off, and it flew over my head, narrowly missing the pacing detective.

"Mr. 'Olmes, ferget 'bout the case an' have some fun! Blimey, yew'd think 'e's got nothin' else ta live for!" the lad scowled at my friend.

"Holmes?"

The detective snorted rudely and turned his back on both of us. Alfie glanced at me, cocking a ginger eyebrow, eyes gleaming, waiting for any sign of approval.

And when I could not repress a grin, he returned it with a wicked smirk.

Three seconds later, Sherlock Holmes was yelping, frantically endeavouring to remove an armful of snow from down his Inverness and swearing a blue streak, heedless of the presence of my young conspirator.

When he stopped his growling, turning two malicious grey eyes on the pair of us, we decided discretion was indeed the better part of valour and began retreating; Sherlock Holmes could keep a grudge like no man alive.

Unfortunately, two minutes later I was flat on my back with a faceful of snow, Holmes standing over me triumphantly, another snowball poised and waiting, a wicked smirk on his face. But suddenly a ginger-haired blur tackled him and they both went sprawling into the nearest drift.

"Two to one isn't fair!" I heard him yowl before Alfie shoved a snowball in his mouth and scrambled off, shrieking with laughter as he spluttered.

Then suddenly I heard Lachlan's amused voice behind me.

"Ahem. Boys?"


	113. Blowhard

_:( PGF is making me practice writing Lachlan and Renie in preparation for **That Whiter Host, **because I didn't do much with the former in_ _**Vows**. Bear with me in an exercise, set per her instructions (aka demands)._

* * *

"The moon's beautiful tonight."

"Best enjoy it while you can, lad – twenty-four hours it'll disappear behind that London fog."

"I'm eager to see it again – been two years since I was there, one of my first foreign assignments," the reporter said, tapping a pencil against his teeth.

"Mmph. What on earth took you from London to Bombay?"

"I dunno. Just following whatever lead – and work – I could get, I s'pose. 'Til I latched onto you and got a shot at a story lead, nothin' important happened."

"_Latched_ is right, you nagged me worse than a woman!"

"I did not!"

"You were an insufferable pest."

"All reporters are, Lachlan!"

"'Specially you, it seems."

Haight snorted. "What are you going to do when you get back to England?"

"Mm, look up a few friends, nose about for something to do, I suppose. You?"

"Tag along, naturally."

"Supposing I tell you to shove off?"

"I'm an American – we're a stubborn lot, Lachlan."

"Now _that_ I believe. You're a veritable leech."

"And you're an old salt that's all bluster and no bite!"

Haight ducked a good-natured elbow.

"I should have left you buried in that tomb in Egypt."

"Then no one would have saved your skin in India."

"I'd have managed."

"Against 6 men with machetes?"

Lachlan scowled, glaring at the cocky American.

"Pest."

"Blowhard."


	114. Babysitter

_Hallo, all! I've been out of town all weekend at my graduation ceremony and rehearsals, etc., so if you were wondering where I was, that's why. This is a double 221B, and I'm killing two birds with one stone - spoilers for **That Whiter Host** and an entry into Chewing Gum's meme._

* * *

"Wait."

Holmes laid a finger to his lips, motioning me to silence. For a moment, we heard nothing but the clattering of the train wheels; then I heard what Holmes had already distinguished – a barely audible brushing against the compartment door.

Holmes glanced at me, then shoved the door open with an abrupt bang.

And elicited a small yelp from the little eavesdropper outside our compartment.

"Get in here," my friend snapped, hauling the cringing lad into the compartment, shoving him into a seat across from the two of us.

"Alfie, what the devil are you doing here?" I gasped at last, when the penitent Irregular turned his attentions to me in an effort for a bit more sympathy.

"Followin' yew."

"We _had_ managed to deduce that for ourselves," Holmes snapped, slamming the door closed again, "but we are now on the Continent – how in the world did you shadow us for so long without my seeing you?"

The lad scoffed. "Yer the one tha' taught me 'ow ta tail a bloke wit'out bein' seen, Mr. 'Olmes!"

I glared at my friend, who was turning an interesting shade of crimson.

"Pity you're such a good teacher, _'Mr. 'Olmes'_," I said icily.

Holmes sent me a scathing look before turning back to Alfie

"I told you to stay in London. No, do _not_ interrupt me, young man. I don't care how well you speak German or how much help you think you are going to be, you are NOT coming with us! And that is final!"

Alfie winced at the detective's raised voice, shrinking back into the cushions, looking at me. I shook my head sternly.

And then he did the unthinkable – those large green eyes welled up and he started to cry silently.

Holmes's face turned even redder, and I was hard put not to laugh, for I knew the lad well enough to see that it was a complete act.

Holmes spluttered for a moment but finally dropped back beside me with a sigh.

"I suppose we can't send you back to London alone," he growled.

This time I _did_ laugh, as the tears instantly dissipated, being replaced by that impish grin.

"But on one condition, mind," Holmes said sternly.

"Wha's tha', Mr. 'Olmes?"

"You do whatever Dr. Watson tells you to without question, hear?"

"What _I_ tell him to?" I asked in dismay.

"Yes, I'm putting you in charge of him this trip, you seem to be so sympathetic to him."

"But –"

"I have not the time nor the energy to deal with a hyperactive child on this case."

"But – confound it, Holmes! I'm a doctor, not a baby-sitter!"


	115. Bradshaw

_A thankful nod to PGF for the inspiration for this little ficlet, due to her recent **Of Trains and** **Timetables** - go read it after you leave me a review, because it's a good deal better than this. :)_

* * *

I heard the porter calling 'Euston Station' in the corridor and gave a long sigh of relief. This infernal case had been a thoroughly tiring business, made all the worse by the fact that I'd gone alone this time.

Watson had been unable to come – or rather I'd ordered him not to, since his recent illness had left him rather weak; and he needed rest, not melodrama as I knew this case would hold. He had thrown a rather childish fit when I'd told him he was not coming, but not even _he_ can bend my will when it concerns his well-being.

I felt an unexpected grin crease my face as the train screechingly stopped, finding myself actually looking forward to returning to Baker Street and the familiar comforts of all it held.

Not that I would ever admit that fact for the world.

I stepped down, glancing round absently – only to find myself collared by a friendly hand.

"What the devil – you shouldn't be out!"

Watson snorted but grinned, leaning heavily on his walking-stick, and I slipped a hand under his elbow supportingly.

"What have you been doing whilst I've been gone, besides traipsing round the city when you should be in bed?"

He smirked complacently, gesturing to the waiting cab and the timetable in his pocket.

"Memorising the Bradshaw."


	116. Burns

"Watson, if you're that tired go to bed. I can finish this just fine alone."

I started, looking up from the paper-littered table as Holmes interrupted our conversation with this.

"I haven't even yawned!"

"No, actually, you've been doing an admirable job of keeping your exhaustion from me," he replied, pointing the stem of his pipe at me and leaning back, eyes twinkling at my bemusement.

"Then how did you – "

"Your accent."

I blinked. "My what?"

"Your accent gives you away every time."

"Holmes. I have the same London accent as you."

He shook his head.

"Not so, Watson. Despite living amongst the English populace for years, a man raised in another country never fully forgets his speech. You are no exception."

"What the deuce are you rambling about?" I asked wearily, slumping down in my chair.

"There, you did it again."

"Did what?"

"Rolled your R's. When you're exhausted, that Scottish burr comes through loud and clear, old chap."

"It does?" I asked in dismay, feeling an embarrassed flush creep into my ears.

He nodded, austere eyes softening. "Nothing to be embarrassed about, my dear fellow. I find it rather amusing."

That was of little comfort to me. "How bad is it?"

Holmes's mouth twisted into a fond grin.

"Right now, you're somewhere between Inspector MacDonald and Robert Burns."


	117. Biographer

I stared dully at the wall after the door had slammed, hearing his reproof still ringing in my ears. _Why must I always make such a mess of things? When will I learn to think with my head, not my heart?_

I had deserved the rebuke for nearly blowing our cover, but it was not as if I had intentionally done so. I sighed, dropping my head wearily.

I heard the door open and he stalked round me, pouring himself a drink and drinking it deliberately.

I took a deep breath. "Holmes?"

He raised his eyebrows, not saying anything.

"Why do you tolerate me, if I am constantly falling short of competence in your cases?"

Evidently he was not expecting that, for he spluttered before turning to face me, studying me for a long moment before walking over to sit opposite me.

"Why are you sitting there instead of finding other lodgings after my rather hasty outburst?" he countered with his own question.

I was startled, but answered. "That's ridiculous."

"How so."

"_Leaving,_ over such a trifle? There are far more important things…" I trailed off.

He quirked an eyebrow at me meaningfully, and for the first time since my mistake I smiled.

Holmes smirked. "Besides," he added flippantly, "where else could I get a four-in-one friend, bodyguard, secretary, and biographer?"


	118. Bagpiper

"Give me one good reason why I should take part in this ridiculous –"

"You're Scottish, my dear fellow," Holmes said simply, as if that were explanation enough to cover all the facts. I stared at him incredulously.

"That doesn't mean – "

"Oh, come now, Watson. I thought all you Scots played them."

"That's as ludicrous a stereotype as saying we're all heavy drinkers and we all wear kilts as everyday attire!"

"You mean to tell me you've never tried?"

"To wear a _kilt_?"

"No, no, no. For heaven's sake, Watson!"

"I am not playing them, I've only touched a set once."

"But I need you to, it's a part of my plot to retrieve –"

"I don't care about your plot!"

"I have to have a diversion!"

"Then get out there and play your violin; I am not doing this!"

Holmes glared at me, but I remained inexorable. Forcefulness not having had any success in swaying me, he resorted to wheedling.

"Please, Watson?"

"No."

"Watson, for heaven's sake, it's just meant as a distraction so I can get in there and rifle the safe, that's all. MacIntire will come out to talk to you, and I shall slip in behind him – the work of ten minutes."

"No."

"But –"

"Holmes, for the last time. I'm a doctor, not a bagpiper!"


	119. Breakfast

_Don't ask where this idea came from, please...boredom during church announcements, a blank page in the bulletin, and a Granada obsession are not a good combination..._

* * *

"Watson, look."

"Very nice, Holmes," I droned mechanically, not glancing up from my writing.

"You didn't even look!"

I could hear the petulant scowl in his tone, and so I looked, sighing. Ever since we had returned from Ridling Thorpe Manor, he had been doodling on our blackboard, scribbling different sequences of those confounded dancing men.

"Erm, very nice. What exactly does it say?" I asked patiently.

"Deduce, Watson."

"I am most definitely not. I am busy."

He glared at me. "It's my name, Doctor."

"Yes, yes, wonderful. Half a moment," I said, joining him at the blackboard, "there was no K in that cipher."

"I know, I had to make up another dancing man."

He looked ridiculously pleased with himself over this.

"Let me see, what would your name be…" he frowned, scribbling on the board, leaving the first letter blank.

"You'll have to make up a W," I supplied helpfully as he bit the end of the chalk.

Holmes shot me a sidelong glance, smirked, then copied the E figure and added an outrageous walrus mustache.

I glared at him, then countered by scribbling a large meerschaum (complete with smoke) onto the H in his own name.

Suddenly Mrs. Hudson's voice broke into our childish sniggering.

"Gentlemen. You've ten minutes to put away your toys and come to breakfast."


	120. Pita Bread

_A double 221B (containing a semi-private joke), in honour of my writing partner's return from abroad. Welcome back, PGF!_

* * *

I jumped out of the cab with a contented sigh – after four weeks abroad on that infernally annoying case, it was quite grand to be home again. Even if London skies were pouring a veritable hurricane, the sight still was a welcome one after the dry heat of the Middle East.

However, the cabbie was not at all happy that I was standing on the pavement, looking up at our rooms with a ridiculously childish grin, instead of paying him.

After rectifying that error, I proceeded to enter. The hall was dark but the fire was lit in the sitting room – Watson obviously was still up. I tiptoed up-stairs and peeked in.

He was standing by the table with his back to me, flipping through one of my files. My mischievous streak came to the fore and I noiselessly crept up behind him, shoving the end of my walking stick into his back.

"Oll roight, gov, raise yer 'ands, nice an' easy," I growled in a falsely-accented voice.

Unfortunately, Watson's years in my company had been too beneficial to his self-defensive tendencies. As it was, he nearly broke my wrist when he threw me against the wall.

I was still shaking stars out of my vision when I heard his exclamation of surprise, mingled with worry.

"Bravo, my dear Watson," I said dryly, rubbing my head.

"What the devil were you thinking, coming up behind a chap like that?!"

"Yes, I am glad to see you too," I muttered, accepting the hand he held out to me.

"Are you all right?"

"I suppose, no thanks to your over-hasty wrestling."

"How was I to know it was an idiotic detective behind me and not a vengeance-seeking assassin?"

I endeavoured to remain irritated, but the situation was so absurd that within minutes I was laughing, and Watson along with me.

"How was the trip?"

"Hot."

He laughed, offering me a drink which I readily accepted. "Anything happen while I was gone?"

"A good deal. Four weeks is a frightfully long time."

I glanced up.

"You did get the postcards?"

"Right here," he replied, tapping the ever-present journal on his desk with a smile.

"Had a deucedly hard time finding a place to post them," I growled.

"Thank you."

I smiled despite myself at the simple words, and he sat across from me, all traces of sleep now vanished.

"So, what was it like?"

"Dry. And dull, too. Not worth the case, really."

"Pity."

"Fills the exchequer, Watson."

"I wish I could have gone with you."

"So do I, frankly. But –"

"But what?"

"You'd never have been able to stand the ubiquitous pita bread."


	121. Ensuing Battle

_CG beat me to it, but how could I resist such an appealing combination?_

* * *

_Crashsshsshhh_…

Sherlock Holmes and I both jumped as a loud shattering noise sounded behind us. Holmes had dropped a test-tube and I had put a long scratch across my page, and as a result we were both very much not happy. We shouted as one.

"Alfred Weber!"

"Eve Johanna!"

Both children in question scrambled to their feet, red-faced, amidst the remains of the sugar bowl, which I had put atop the mantel out of their eager reaches. Apparently, judging from his sprawled position, Alfie had convinced the girl to stand on his shoulders in order to reach the elusive sweet, and Eve had lost her balance, sending them both to the floor.

"She did it!" Alfie bellowed quickly, pointing a grubby finger at the indignant little miss.

I was about to lecture the boy on the childish meanness of blaming a crime on someone who could not verbally defend herself, but the girl beat me to the punch.

Literally.

Holmes howled with laughter behind me as Alfie yelped and went sprawling from a well-aimed blow to the head with a primer, wielded by a very indignant little girl.

"'Ere now!" the boy shrieked, rubbing his ear, "tha's not very ladyloike!"

Eve smirked wickedly.

I found it expedient to hastily remove myself from the crossfire at the commencement of the ensuing battle.


	122. Explaining

_Again, I couldn't resist this combination..._

* * *

"Can oi keep i', Doctor?"

"Keep what?"

"Wha' oi've got in me 'and, Doctor – please say oi can!"

I glanced at the lad's cupped hands and became instantly suspicious.

"What is it?"

"Nothin', oi jist wan' 'im for a pet, tha's all."

"A _what_?"

I looked askance as a peculiar noise seemed to be emerging. _No, surely not_.

"Please, Doctor?"

"Alfie, what have you got in there?" I demanded as the muffled noise intensified.

"Ummm…"

"Give me that!"

The lad squawked as I opened his fingers.

"Of all the nerve!" _Oh, dear…_ "Doctor, since when have you been keeping monsters like this around your flat?" an indignant voice demanded.

I sighed, and the very rumpled-looking mouse hopped angrily onto my desk, giving the rodent equivalent of a fierce scowl to Alfie, who was now staring, aghast.

"Basil, he's one of Holmes's messenger boys. He meant no harm –"

"No harm? He wanted me for a _pet_! A **_PET,_** DOCTOR!"

For a mouse, Basil has a rather loud voice. Holmes poked his head out of his bedroom just as Alfie's nerve finally broke. He launched himself at the detective, wailing hysterically and clutching Holmes's trouser leg.

"Mr. 'Olmes, it _talks_!"

Holmes glanced at the fuming mouse, who was fastidiously re-tying his tiny cravat, and sniggered.

"I'll leave the explanations to you, Basil."


	123. Highheeled Boot

_Many thanks to Chewing Gum for inspiring this by her answer to my question in the latest installment of "Go Ask Mrs. Holmes."_

* * *

"Hold still, you'll smear it."

"You owe me so badly for this I doubt you'll ever repay the debt, Holmes."

"Yes, yes. Hold still, confound it!"

"Why are you bothering, it's not like it can be seen through that blasted veil anyhow."

"Your eyes will. And the veil was your choice."

"Well, I wasn't about to shave my moustache just for one of your petty problems!"

"Then stop grousing about the makeup. There we are."

I was very uncomfortable; this disguise was unflattering, hot, and the shoes pinched. It was also the most awful colour I had ever seen.

And it was a _dress_.

Holmes smirked. "You look very pretty."

My response was not a thrilled one.

"Dear me, such language from a lady!"

"Shut up. Look, where am I supposed to keep my revolver??"

"In your handbag."

"My _what_?"

"Here." He handed me a purse of a matching colour, and I felt my ears burn.

"Mm, now your face clashes with the dress, Watson."

He was laughing, confound it, he was actually _enjoying_ this! To make matters worse, Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to enter the sitting room.

"Gentlemen, will you be wanting…I don't even want to know…"

The door slammed, and Holmes shouted with laughter.

Then he yelped as his shin was solidly contacted by a fashionably high-heeled boot.


	124. Ballroom

_Continuation of the last..._

* * *

"Why could _you_ not have been the woman and _I_ the husband?" I whined.

"Because in those boots I'd have been six-foot-six! Now look, like this."

"And how do you know exactly how a woman walks, Holmes? I thought you didn't even _like_ them?"

He scowled. "I never said I didn't _like_ them, Watson, I said I never wanted to _marry_ one! And if I did, it wouldn't be one with an Army regulation mustache, by the way!"

"That's probably the only kind that would be desperate enough to _take_ you!"

He was not amused.

After an hour, he moved on to the next part of the farce, which I was not at all happy about.

I backed away as he advanced, but tripped on my hem and made a crash landing on the floor in a _shwissssh_ of petticoats.

"Don't you dare!"

"Watson, it's a necessary part of the disguise!"

"Holmes. In the last fifteen years, I have been shot, stabbed, beaten almost to death in the streets, trapped in burning buildings, and contracted deadly diseases – all for the sake of one of your cases and for you. But I am _not,_ and I repeat, _not_, going to put my head on your shoulder and allow you to put your hand on my hip and twirl me across a ballroom!"


	125. Book

_There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came down on the man's head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor with blood running down his face…_

"Well, what of it?"

"It's utterly ridiculous," came the response over the scratchy connection – how I wished I'd never had the blasted telephone installed, for Holmes's fascination with the device was bordering on obsessive, calling me at all hours when his bees were no longer sufficiently entertaining.

"I know, but that's what happened!"

"Watson!" either the connection was growing worse, or he was developing something of a distinct whine. "I don't want people thinking it was like that!"

"What, that you actually are capable of emotion?"

"No, you idiot – that I was stupid enough to lunge for the man instead of shooting him!"

I laughed outright. "I thought it was rather adorable, after all your teasing me about being reckless, impulsive, a knight-errant charging into the fray…"

"Thank heaven you saw fit to leave _that_ analogy out of the story."

"What, you don't want people thinking you're adorable?"

"You have gotten rather sentimental in your old age, my friend."

"And you've only gotten more caustic. Now is that all you wanted to call about?"

"Yes. Seriously, do the people actually _like_ that?"

"Doesn't matter. If they don't, they'll just rewrite the book."


	126. Second Best

_So yes, from past personal experience here, even the best of people have our moments of embarrassing ridiculosity..._

* * *

"Easy, don't move yet," I murmured, gently applying iodine to the cut along the side of his face.

Holmes winced, muttering something that sounded rather obscene, flinching in pain.

"Stop moving, I said! And keep that ice on your eye, you want to be able to use it in the next week, don't you? There, that should do it now."

He moaned softly and turned his unbandaged side towards me.

"That was a very vicious fight, Holmes."

"Watson. You're laughing at me – do you find this _entertaining_?!"

His temper was flaring with the passing moments, but I still could not stop smirking.

"Well it _was_ an unprovoked attack…"

"Watson!"

I covered my laughter as Mrs. Hudson entered with a pot of tea. She took one look at the bandaged detective and rolled her eyes. Holmes glared at the good lady.

"The Doctor finally had enough of your being so insufferable, Mr. Holmes?" she asked impertinently, throwing me a wink.

"If _I_ had done this, he wouldn't be mobile," I said helpfully, taking a steaming cup.

Holmes was not in the least amused.

I grinned over my cup. "Sherlock Holmes, brilliant master detective…walking straight into a closed door."

"I hope it isn't damaged," the lady worried.

"Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Hudson - I'm afraid Holmes's nose came off rather second best."


	127. Bat

_I had to do this, these challenge answers were getting rather depressing..._

* * *

Well, well!" said he coolly as he scrambled to the surface. "I guess you've been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand it to you; you have me beat, and--"

In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and fired two shots. I stared in some surprise as the bullets sped harmlessly into the wall several feet from me.

There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came down on the man's head. I turned back to watch disinterestedly as my friend theatrically pistol-whipped the fellow and then did a thorough search of his person. Deduction, indeed – if Evans had pulled a gun from such an inconvenient place as his shirt, then that _probably_ was the only one he had.

"I say, he's a terrible shot, Holmes."

"No, Watson, he is actually quite a good one."

"Then he was aiming for the wall," I replied dryly.

"Not so. Come here, and observe."

_I hate it when he says that…_

"Here, you see? I perceived when he was in Baker Street the indentations on each side of his nose. The man wears spectacles, Watson."

I blinked.

"Precisely. And lucky for us, without them Evans is blind as a bat."


	128. Brakes

_This is a double-221B for my co-author PGF:_

* * *

I straighten up from the hives with a sigh and a ridiculous popping of the joints…Watson always warned me that I would be prone to rheumatism. I pocket my journal and its contents regarding my work-in-progress and start back to my cottage, wondering what I am going to do the rest of the weekend.

I round the corner of the path in time to hear a dreadful sputtering and hissing shattering the peace of this summer evening, and as it dies I hurry round the house to see a familiar figure descending from…oh, good heavens, no…

"Evening, Holmes!"

Despite the horrendous oddity of the situation, just the sight of him brings a smile unbidden to my face. My weekend will be eventful after all.

"My dear fellow…what on earth?" I managed to gasp as I take his hand.

"I got tired of taking the train!" he says brightly, with all the excitement of a child showing off a new toy.

"But – but – why on earth –"

"Well I had to get one sooner or later, Holmes, I'm growing rather too old to be walking twenty miles a day like we did in Baker Street," he says with a slight blush. My dear Watson, proud to the last.

I splutter for a moment before finding my manners at last and taking his valise from him.

"I must say, your practice must be doing rather well for you to be able to afford it," I throw over my shoulder as I set the bag down on the spare bed…really _his_ bed, as no one else ever has or ever will sleep there.

He shrugs modestly as always. "Fair enough. But…you haven't yet said if you like it or not?"

"I really am not an expert on the subject, Watson," I reply dryly.

"Like to go for a drive?" he asks eagerly, and I feel my face blanch.

"Erm, Watson…are you sure you know how?"

I receive the I-am-not-actually-annoyed-with-you-but-I-will-be-if-you-don't-humour-me eyeroll, and hastily rephrase the question.

"I mean, is it quite safe?"

"The car, or my driving ability?" he returns with a grin.

"Erm, both. I – have never ridden in one before, you know…"

"Oh, come on. Where's that reckless sense of adventure you used to have?"

"I left it in Baker Street four years ago!"

He turns that horrible pleading gaze on me that I never had been able to refuse…and especially now that I only see it on the odd weekend here and there. And as I sigh, he grins, knowing he has won yet again.

All the same, I believe I shall make sure _I_ at least know the location of the brakes…


	129. Bedlam

_This is a double-221B in honour of my six-month anniversary today of being a member here. Dedicated to all you wonderful people who've given me a kind welcome and even kinder support and reviews. Thank you all!_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was nervous.

When ill-at-ease, he would obsessively fidget with everything unfortunate enough to be within reach of his groping fingers.

Fifteen minutes into the meal, his silverware was dulled with fingerprints and somehow his water-glass ended up by my soup-plate.

When he re-fastened his cuff-links for the fifth time, I finally laid my fork down and waited patiently.

"What, Doctor?" he demanded, drinking nervously.

"I'm curious as to why you took me to dinner just to tell me something, when it would have been as easy to do it in Baker Street," I said, and was gratified to see him start at my deduction.

"Mrs. Hudson was making cabbage soup, you know I hate it."

"But that's not the reason. Now what is it?"

"Do you know what today is?"

"Friday."

"You know what I mean!"

I grinned. "Holmes, somehow I don't think your sentiment is so great that you treated me to an expensive dinner just for the sake of an _anniversary_. What's the real reason you wanted to talk to me?"

His pale face flushed uncomfortably. "It's been a year."

"Yes, it has."

"We agreed on six months at the outset, and then when that was up we decided to try six more," he said nervously, fidgeting with his napkin ring.

My appetite suddenly gone, I met his gaze with no little trepidation.

"You're wanting to part ways then?"

"No!" The word was blurted from his mouth before he could stop himself, and he blushed a deep red. An instant later he had reverted to his cold, clear self.

"Not at all, Doctor, unless you wish it."

"I don't," I said slowly, "but when my pension decreases I shan't be able to keep up my half of the rent."

It was my turn to blush, for I had been trying hard to save wherever I could – tonight was the first time in over a month I'd eaten outside of Baker Street.

"That's what I wished to speak to you about."

I winced, dropping my gaze.

"I have a proposition for you, Watson."

"Yes?"

"My case fees are ample to pay the rent. If you continue to assist me, I believe that would be a fair trade, would it not?"

I glanced up in surprise, but he was apparently absolutely serious.

"Well, I –"

"Hah! That's settled then."

He clapped his hands in apparent glee, and the napkin-ring he'd been fidgeting with flew off the table and rolled under the feet of a rather overweight busboy, who screamed and dropped a tray of silverware.

"As a new full partner, am I now allowed to laugh when you're responsible for causing bedlam?"


	130. Breakfast II

_Wow, over 1,000 reviews - thank you all so much! This is for_ Pebbles66_, who wanted to know what happened the morning after Holmes switched the time on Watson's watch in Chapter 20 of_ TWH _- PGF and I cut it out because of chapter length. Here you go, Pebbles66!_

* * *

"Watson, wake up."

I shook his shoulder gently, receiving only a sleepy murmur of protest. I abandoned gentleness and yanked all the blankets off the bed, letting the frigid January air in.

This time I received the closest thing I'd ever heard to a whine from him.

"Come on, old man, the Count is waiting for us," I said, trying not to laugh as he sat up sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

He fumbled to look at his watch, and I belatedly realised I should have changed the time back _before_ awakening him…

"Ohhh, Holmes, it's only half-past seven!" he moaned, slumping against the headboard, "what the blazes does that nobleman want at this ungodly hour?"

"Erm, actually, Watson…it's half-past eleven," I said cautiously.

He blinked, then opened his eyes completely and looked at the watch again.

"No, it's _not_, it's half-past seven."

"Watson, I…changed your watch last night after you fell asleep. So you would sleep longer this morning," I amended hastily, taking a wary step back at his suddenly wide-awake glare.

"I was supposed to check on Lachlan –"

"I did, he's fine."

"And get Alfie ready for the day –"

"Haight did it."

"And write up some more notes –"

"Unnecessary."

This time I had to laugh as his countenance went from annoyed to mournful.

"And I missed breakfast!"


	131. Boswells, Unite!

_For those of you who don't know, one of our fellow authors, **chuxter**, was hacked and her FF account trashed by some perverted jerk. Instead of reviewing this, do send this new author a PM telling her not to give up writing, will you? Many thanks, friends. _

_Chuxter, this is for you - and listen carefully:_

* * *

I was in the midst of a crucial experiment involving combustible chemicals when Watson, who normally remained intelligently silent during such risky experiments, gave a short cry imbued with such horror that I nearly dropped the test tube.

Once said volatile chemicals were safely stowed, I whirled round to find him standing at the table, an opened letter in his hand and absolutely no colour left in his face.

"Watson! What on earth's the matter?" Concerned, I hurried over and took his elbow as he turned an absolutely aghast face to mine.

"Read that," he whispered, shoving the letter in my direction. I scanned its contents…what the blazes?!

"As you can see, it's from my agent at the _Strand_ – someone's been submitting manuscripts ostensibly from me when I never authorized nor ever would authorize them!" he gasped, handing me a copy of said manuscript.

I glanced at the first few pages…and felt my ears nearly burn off my head. Never in a hundred years would my Victorian-to-his-very-core Watson have written this…gutter-press.

"What did the _Strand_ have to say about it?"

"That they didn't want to publish anything else until they find out what in the world is going on," he whispered dismally, sinking into a chair and rubbing his temples.

"That's ridiculous! You have a public waiting for your next installment!"

"Yes, I know – but they don't want this to happen again. No more stories until we find out who's responsible. Heaven only knows how long that will take," he murmured, his honest face a picture of embarrassed misery.

I was thoroughly incensed. Beating up Watson's writing was _my_ exclusive privilege and no one else's. And when they moved from his writing to trying to trash his reputation, I forewent the normal warnings and went straight for the throat.

"You write. I'm going out," I growled.

"Going where?"

"To find the perpetrator – until then, you write, I command it!"

He broke into a loud guffaw at my imperiousness, and I was glad to have brought a smile to his worried face.

"You've a public, Watson, and one that doesn't care about these filthy idiots that are trying to discredit and discourage you," I snapped, "don't leave them hanging just because some person with nothing better to spend their life on is doing this."

He glanced up at me, and finally his eyes lost that hurt look, warming to my (unheard-of) rare praise.

"So my writing does have merit, after all?" he smirked, taking out his notebook.

"I never said that," I shot dryly over my shoulder, "but whoever this is will rue the day that he attacked the work of _my_ Boswell!"


	132. Bargain

_Well, I'd like to thank several people who have already used this idea for one of my writing prompts - I had planned on doing it myself and had not gotten round to doing it; hope you all don't mind my using the same general principle, with one twist. I'd planned also upon using another of EchoValley's sentences from the fic, "Forty Years, Fifty Sentences" and never got round to doing it. This kills two birds with one stone._

* * *

He was gambling yet again that night.

I could tell from the lack of chalk between his forefinger and thumb and the fact that he mentioned last week that Thurston was on a fortnight's vacation. As he never plays billiards except with Thurston, his small addiction to whist (that and the horses being the only vices the fellow possesses in a flatly boring character) had apparently asserted itself.

This was in part my fault, for even I could not stand to be with myself the night before. Three weeks of stagnation, a snapped A string, and Mrs. Hudson's making cabbage for dinner all had turned my mood from black to ebony, and I frankly did not even notice when he left the flat nor when he returned.

I puffed thoughtfully on my pipe, watching him scribble angrily in his ledger, his pen making a jagged scratch in his apparent fury at the state of his finances. Heavy losses, then. He really must learn to curb that gambling streak.

"Bad night, Watson?" I ventured.

"Not a very grand deduction," he snapped.

"It wasn't meant to be."

The angry scratching stopped and he slammed the book closed.

"Well, are you going to lecture me about it?" he sighed with the expectant air of a condemned man.

"Who am I to judge another man's vices?"

He glanced up at me, the harsh lines in his face fading slightly. Muttering something that sounded like 'thank God for small favours', he moved round me to collapse into his armchair.

A sudden glimmering of an idea sparked in my mind. Yes, possibly…'twould have to be handled with finesse, however, to avoid damage to his pride.

And carefully done so as to not appear condescending on my part, for heaven knew my vices were far more damaging and numerous than that man's could ever dream of being.

I moved to the mantelpiece, reaching up for my cocaine-bottle and Moroccan case.

Interestingly enough, I saw the protest rise and die upon his lips as he realised how hypocritical it would be to voice said protest at that particular moment.

I turned and tossed the items to him, receiving a dumbfounded look in return. I kept my hand outstretched.

"Hand over your cheque-book, and we'll see who breaks first. Eh, Watson?"

From the sudden gleam in his eyes, I knew that either the challenge or the idea of keeping me from my cocaine had won his interest. He reached for his cheque-book and I smiled, knowing I should not have to go without the drug for long.

Six months later, I am very much wishing I had never made that bargain.


	133. Britain

"Lestrade, you simply _cannot_ do this!"

The Inspector turned round, his eyes alight with wicked satisfaction, dancing in glee over the situation.

"Now, Mr. Holmes –"

"Lestrade!" the detective shouted, drawing the attention of two passing constables. "Do you understand what it would do to my reputation if those rags got hold of this?"

"Mr. Holmes." Lestrade grinned mockingly. "I cannot conceal facts from the press. There's no shame in being proven wrong on a case; even _you_ make mistakes sometimes."

"Lestrade, if you let that press conference know that my blundering of timetables allowed the gang leader to get across the Channel, my reputation shall be completely ruined!" Holmes was dangerously close to pleading now with the Inspector.

"Dear, dear, Mr. Holmes. But I've been waiting for years to finally prove that the old force is better than your pretty theories. No, I believe the conference will go as planned."

The Doctor, who had been watching with bored amusement, stepped up to stand beside the now-panicking Holmes.

"Might I remind you, Lestrade, that the _Strand_ magazine has at least five times the number of readers as those tabloids combined?" he asked coolly.

"Are you _threatening_ me, Dr. Watson?"

"Most definitely."

"And if I refuse?"

"Next month, your description goes from _best of the professionals_ to the _leading imbecile in Britain_."


	134. Banshee

_A very random (I apologise) and belated answer to two plot bunnies at once, sent to me by **Spirit of the Skies**:_ 

* * *

"You were dared to do it?" I demanded.

"Oi couldn' say no," the lad wailed over Mrs. Hudson's cocoa.

"Alfie," I said sternly.  "Daring can be a very dangerous habit to indulge in!"

The child sniffled miserably.  "Oi didn' know 'twould work!"

"Well you do now, and you're going to be in a lot of pain because of it."

"But oi 'ad to!" the boy wailed, turning pleadingly to Holmes.  "Yew understand, don' yew Mr. 'Olmes?"  

"Erm…" Holmes stammered.  "I…have never licked a lamp-post before, Alfie."

Something in his tone caught my attention; he fidgeted uncomfortably under my scrutiny.

"No, you lived in the country," I said slowly.  "No lamp-posts…"

My friend suddenly found his pipe extraordinarily interesting.  "It was a pump-handle," he muttered.

Alfie's tears stopped and he stared at the detective for a moment before bursting into a fit of giggles.

Holmes scowled.  "Mycroft told me it would only work when the metal got to a certain temperature, so I tested it for a week…one day, it finally worked," he growled.

I could restrain my laughter no longer, chortling with glee at this bit of information.

"'Ow'd yew get loose, Mr. 'Olmes?" 

"In a more painful manner than you, young fellow – my brother was considerably less gentle than the Doctor," Holmes mumbled.  "He said I screamed like a banshee."


	135. But

_This is for PGF, and she knows why (hugs):_

* * *

I was sitting before the fire smoking when my thoughts were shattered by a crash, a sloshing, and a cry of dismay – in that order.

I twisted round to see Watson standing motionless with a look of utter horror, watching a brown river of coffee pour over the side of his desk.

"Watson – the coffee, man, it's staining the carpet!"

"The carpet can be replaced!" he moaned, snatching a napkin and mopping the pool under the desk.

Oh, dear…

"Do I want to ask what got ruined?"

"An entire story," he whispered miserably, lifting the now-soggy pages lovingly.

I was about to make some comment about the world being better off for one less romantic memoir but stopped upon seeing Watson's face – had I not known better I should have sworn he was close to tears. At any rate, he looked utterly heartbroken and even my heart went out to his misfortune as he slumped dejectedly into his chair.

"I'm sorry, old boy."

"My own fault…I should never have liquids round when I'm writing…"

"So have a stiff brandy and begin again," I suggested quietly. "And I'm quite sure your second story will be even more stunning than the first."

"You really think so?" he asked miserably.

"My dear Watson. With you as the author, how could it be anything but?"


	136. Be

_While doing research for our next collab, PGF and I came across a very interesting item in a history timeline for the year 1896. So yes, while this is highly improbable it is not impossible - and besides, PGF challenged me to do it and so I did. Read at your own risk._

* * *

"You _would_ choose the coldest night of the winter to lay a trap for a killer, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade groused, shifting his weight on the floor.

"Genius I may be, Inspector, but not even _I_ can predict the weather and its quirks," the detective drawled, apparently not feeling the cold in the least. His eyes never left their position; namely, boring holes in the frosty pane before him.

The frozen silence was shattered by a sudden crinkling, followed by a steady chewing.

"Watson. What the blazes are you doing."

"Trying to shtay awake," the Doctor declared, though the words were barely intelligible.

"Are you _eating_ something?"

"I should think even my deductive powers could tell that, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade interjected, smirking.

More chomping filled the silence, and the detective glared over his shoulder. "What on earth is that?"

"Candy. Was in that Christmas box Lachlan and Haight sent us – or did you even read the card?" Watson asked knowingly.

"I have no time for trifles."

"You'll hear no complaints from me," the Doctor replied cheerfully, unwrapping another candy and popping it in his mouth.

"What is it?" Lestrade whispered.

Watson swallowed. "Some sort of chocolate, with the consistency of toffee. Here, have a Tootsie Roll, Lestrade."

Sherlock Holmes suddenly wondered just how painful concussing himself against the wall could possibly be.


	137. Bang

Metal clattered guiltily floor-ward as the door slammed open, and Holmes's sleep-blurred eyes glared at the scene. "What are you doing with my burglaring tools?"

"Nothing…"

"Were you actually trying to break into my desk?" Holmes appeared more incredulous than angry, for he had done it himself upon occasion.

"Erm…of course not!"

"Prevaricating doesn't become you, Watson. If you wanted your cheque-book so, you could simply have asked me to get it for you."

Holmes lit his pipe, and the room sharpened. Watson standing guiltily by the desk, no coffee on the table yet!, and a revolting piney scent emanating from the door wreath.

"Gambling so close to the holidays is not the wisest financial action, Doctor," Holmes observed snidely. "May I remind you of the reason for that cheque-book's location?"

The doctor's face flushed an angry crimson. "I've no intention of doing anything of the kind!"

"I see no other reason to be so covert in retrieving the source of your finance."

"You wouldn't!"

"Eh?"

"Do you suppose I carry enough cash to purchase a proper Christmas gift for anyone, even you…_especially_ you?"

The detective accidentally inhaled instead of exhaled a cloud of smoke, sputtering into a hoarse coughing fit. Watson ignored him with an uncharacteristic lack of concern.

Holmes's eyes cleared in time to see the sitting-room door bang.

* * *

_*wince* Will be continued; rather hard to fit conflict and resolution into only 221 words._


	138. Below

Twelve hours had passed, and Sherlock Holmes had progressed from being sleep-dazed to smug to annoyed to dismayed to frustrated to upset and finally, though only Mrs. Hudson could perceive the fact through the deep shag-haze that choked the sitting room, to deeply worried.

Watson had been facing a long day ahead, Holmes knew that full well, but even on his busiest days he always sent home a telegram saying he would be missing a meal or two, as the case might be.

Today there had been no word at all. His day had not been _that_ busy, Holmes knew.

The weather had taken a malicious turn, and ice had begun to coat the streets in a sparkling but deadly sheen two hours ago…from his place at the window Holmes had already seen two accidents on the street below…the consulting-room was a fair distance away from Baker Street, and if he were tired and hungry…and limping anyway as the detective knew he would be in this weather, he would not be watchful…

Holmes discovered he was actually grateful for the distraction when Mrs. Hudson entered to put a tea-tray on the table, stoke the fire, and start admonishing him for ignoring her ministrations.

An even more surprising discovery was that he went limp with relief upon hearing the door shut below.

* * *

_Will be continued (again)._


	139. Bag

In light of the morning's argument, Holmes deemed it sensible to await Watson's ascension of the stairs rather than attacking directly. Besides, he still had not deduced how to apologise without making matters worse.

Mrs. Hudson thought of threatening to withhold dessert tonight if the detective did not show a bit of concern but decided this needed to be worked out between her two lodgers. She went down to attend to the poor Doctor, who had not yet made it farther than the hall.

"Oh, Doctor," the good woman wailed. "You're fair frozen stiff!" She carefully pulled the crackling overcoat off the exhausted man's shoulders amid a faint word of thanks. "Why didn't you take a cab?"

"I did…but there was a young family slipping along on the street…a woman and two little ones," Watson whispered tiredly, finally dropping the heavy physician's bag onto the hall table and rubbing his bad shoulder.

"Mr. Holmes was worried about you," Mrs. Hudson said quietly.

"About my safety, or my gambling habits?" the Doctor asked a bit bitterly, hanging his hat on the peg but keeping his walking-stick for he knew he would need it badly to climb the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes sharpened sternly but softened at the sight of the small paper-wrapped parcel lying on the table beside the snow-dripping black bag.

* * *

_Will be continued (again)._


	140. Behind

The detective noted a strange gnawing in the vicinity of his chest, one that had no connection with gulping a half-cup of scalding tea, when the door opened and the Doctor stumbled silently to collapse in his fireside chair.

Watson was obviously relying on his stick, and besides being half-frozen – ice coated his collar – was holding his arm too stiffly. The detective carefully laid a hand on the offending shoulder as he crouched to proffer a cup of milky, brandy-laced tea. The Doctor's eyes jerked open, a startled exclamation of pain escaping him, but he relaxed when his vision filled with a steaming teacup and the openly worried features of London's foremost observer.

"What happened?" Holmes asked softly, yanking the ottoman up with one foot and perching upon it.

"Ice everywhere," Watson mumbled between sips. "I slipped, grabbed hold of a railing…unfortunately only my left hand caught it. This 's wonderful tea."

Holmes had already decided directness would be the best way to get the ordeal over with. "Watson…" He studied the loose threads dangling from his slippers. "About this morning…I am _very_ sorry, my dear fellow."

Surprisingly enough, the Doctor merely smiled warmly. "Someday, Holmes, you'll learn that logic isn't _always_ correct."

And inexplicably, the icy tension in the room melted, leaving only warmth behind.


	141. Brainless

I resolutely continued my scribbling and attempted the well-practised habit of ignoring a cocaine-less consulting detective.

My tortured mind screamed that if this continued for another half-hour, then he could _jolly well take the drug_, if he would leave me in peace afterwards.

I did not look up upon hearing a glass smash behind me, nor my picture of Henry Ward Beecher being sent swinging gaily to and fro. My jaw clenched when several twings sounded at regular intervals as the silver service became the target of his latest pastime, one precipitated by a gift from a client. I started when a thud shook the window, and gave no reaction when my nearby paperback toppled over with force of impact.

When, however, one missile struck my head, my patience expired violently.

"Do you _mind_, Holmes!" I glared as he dissolved into unrestrained snickering, hiding his weapon (an Eastern blowpipe he had equipped with cork-tipped darts) behind his back.

"Well, what else am I supposed to do with it?" he complained, reloading the infernal device.

I briefly considered one highly uncouth answer to that question but merely vowed to paint our client an imbecile when I wrote his case.

Which would not be difficult, as anyone who would gift a bored Sherlock Holmes with a blowpipe for Christmas was surely entirely brainless.

* * *

_Unfortunately someone who shall remain nameless in my household was given a rubber-band gun for Christmas. Hence the inspiration. (sigh)_


	142. To Be

_Missing scene from the end of **A Study in Snapshots**:_

* * *

Holmes haphazardly tossed his remaining few possessions over his shoulder into an open packing-case, completely unaware that the Doctor was removing and neatly repacking said items.

"Watch it," Watson warned amusedly as a common-place book nearly bashed him in the head when it missed its depository.

"Mm? I say, do you remember this?" the detective asked, brandishing a bulging scrapbook. "No, no, don't get up, dear chap; I forgot. Hold a moment."

Holmes awkwardly mashed a pile of relics into the packing-case, much to the Doctor's organizational dismay, and then slid down beside his friend, their backs against the couch.

Watson leant over to look with nostalgia. "Yes, I remember. You kept that all these years?"

"Indeed…" Holmes's eyes softened as he perused the pages, which had collected every time his name had appeared in public print before the _Strand_, complete with the few pictures that occasionally had filtered into the press; all carefully preserved and inscribed in a familiar handwriting, and ending with a Swiss article dated May 4, 1891.

"If I did not know better, I should think you were some sort of crazed admirer," Holmes teased.

Watson's moustache twitched in a smile. "Half-correct, at least."

The detective grinned. "Only half?"

"Try living with London's untidiest resident for twenty years and see how sane _you_ turn out to be."


	143. Buying

_Scribbled this random idea on the back of a church bulletin tonight whilst I was bored in an over-dramatized business meeting. (shrug) Yes, it is completely random._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was to collaborate with Inspector Lestrade at the close of the latter's meeting; said meeting was running long. Had the detective known the ten minutes would turn into thrice that, he would have waited elsewhere. As it was, he was trapped and fidgeting, listening to the Yard's Shortest drone onward. Watson sat, infuriatingly calmly, beside him, occasionally sending a warning glare when the detective cleared his throat too-loudly.

Holmes was halfway through a very unflattering caricature of Lestrade when the pencil was snatched from his twitchy hands and sent scribbling across the opposing page.

_Stop rolling your eyes every time the man makes a point. It's quite rude, you know._

_Wasting my time is more rude, Doctor. If another constable asks Lestrade a question of the last idiot's calibre, I shall throw my pocket-knife at him._

_Open?_

_He shall be glad there is a Doctor in the house._

_I didn't bring my bag._

_Good, then there will be one less imbecile to grace these revered halls. Do you suppose I could hit Constable Cummings from here with a spitwad?_

_Without being caught? No. Stop that sniggering, Lestrade's glaring at us._

_Let him. Do you still have that horrid Mrs. Hench to tend this evening?_

_Unfortunately, yes._

_Let the old trout see Anstruther, and go to dinner with me._

_You buying?_


	144. Barber II

_More continued randomness (and for the first time I ended exactly on 221 words on the first draft...weird):_

* * *

__

You now officially have to clean up the broken teacup and sort last week's notes when we get home, you know. You really should keep your betting to the horses and not take on Sherlock Holmes.

_How was I to know more than one of those constables would be stupid enough to fall asleep in the middle of a meeting?_

_Been nearly an hour, and the poor fellow ran out of toffees ten minutes ago. Simplicity itself._

_Go to blazes. Do you suppose Lestrade is ever going to be done? _

_Perhaps he literally can't stop. Is that medically possible?_

_Doubtful. _

_I believe I shall do a monograph on the subject. 'Upon the Various and Sundry Methods of Driving Consulting Detectives to Suicidal Madness –_

_That's no drive, it's a short putt in your case._

_Very amusing, Doctor. Remember I still have my pocketknife._

_It would be rather stupid for you to kill the man who patches you up after every case gone wrong. _

_Who said anything about killing?_

_You really do frighten me sometimes, you know._

_One of my strong points, yes._

_Did you see MacPherson's new hair-cut?_

_Disgusting. I wonder how he can get his helmet on properly. If I ever begin parting my hair in the middle, Watson, you have my permission for a mercy killing._

_You, or your barber?_


	145. So Bizarre

"Are you quite sure you don't want to take these with you?" I called through the open bedroom door, stacking up the remaining piles of papers.

"My poor cottage's little attic is already full of my old case notes, Watson, and I shan't have any use for them now. You did say you didn't mind keeping them?" he bellowed back.

"Not at all," I said eagerly. "They will be of great use to me when I start publishing again."

I got to my feet, heading into his room to see how far along he was in finishing his packing. I stepped into the room and glanced around bewilderedly, for the man was nowhere to be found.

Mystified, I turned back to the sitting room...and quite suddenly Holmes materialized before me, cradling in his arms that horrible wax bust. I yelped instinctively, jumping back at the gruesome sight, and he burst into a fit of laughter.

"My apologies," he chortled, offering the horrid thing to me. "But I've no use for this; would you like to keep it?"

I pulled a face and refused to take the image of my friend's head. "_No_. I am not going to have a bullet-holed bust of Sherlock Holmes adorning my consulting-room."

"Whyever not?" asked he, looking quite miffed.

"Because _I_ am not so bizarre!"


	146. Little Boy

I shot bolt upright in my bed, dangerously close to hyperventilating, and immediately fell to work reeling my mind back from a precipice of horror. This would never do; being so incapacitated by a mere dream was both embarrassing and ridiculous. Few things in the world could frighten me more than my own imagination.

Added to this, I had been informed that when in the grip of such a nightmare, I was unconsciously quite vocal and had awakened the house on more than one occasion.

After ten minutes, my breathing no longer rasped out of control, but further sleep seemed impossible. I stumbled into the sitting room, despite the fact I knew the room would be frigidly dark this hour of a winter morning.

Instead, I discovered a small blaze in its beginning stages flickering in the hearth. Upon the table beside the settee sat a steaming teapot, one cup, and a paper packet containing what I recognised to be a light sleeping-draught. The settee itself was buried in two thick blankets and a very enticingly soft, spare pillow.

I curiously poked my head into the hall in time to hear the bedroom door above me creak quietly but not close entirely.

Well then. I supposed I could find it within me to follow Doctor's orders like a good little boy.


	147. Billing

"It would seem almost sacrilegious for someone else to live here…but I'll wager the neighbours will be glad of the improvement." He grinned mischievously.

I snorted a laugh. "No doubt. Probably one of your infatuated readers will inhabit the place."

He looked pensively round the familiar, but rather empty, room. "The new owner should make it into a museum."

"Don't be ridiculous. Who in the world would want to –"

"I would," he muttered sadly.

I slowly laid a hand on his shoulder. "Cheer up, old man. If they do, you could always volunteer as a tour guide."

I was pleased to receive a low laugh. "And over here, ladies and gentlemen, is the window Mr. Holmes shattered when he hurled a brass candlestick at the murderer of Lord Brookridge in July 1894…"

I winced at the recollection. "I believe Mrs. Hudson threatened to evict me a dozen times in those following ten weeks."

"Mmhm. You came back with a record-breaking summer. Ever the melodramatic performer, eh?"

"Then you understand the importance of exiting the stage before applause has ended," I inquired quietly.

"Take your final bow, Mr. Holmes," said he with a mirroring smile, indicating the empty room.

"It is a shame, really," I mused affectionately.

"What is?"

"That your ridiculous unselfishness always gave _me_, not _us_, the top billing."


	148. Blanket

After a lovely holiday spent in the sunny countryside, returning to a rain-lashed London was not overly pleasant. Despite the wet, however, I was glad to be silently letting myself into the hall of 221B; due to bad weather I'd been delayed over three hours in my return and it was wonderful to be home.

My telegram no doubt had allowed Holmes and Mrs. Hudson to sleep without fretting over my whereabouts, and I had no intention of waking either of them. I left my luggage in the hall and tiptoed up the stairs, but noticed the sitting room gas was lit – perhaps Holmes was still awake, then?

I quietly entered, pausing with a smile as I saw that my friend was sound asleep, sprawled all over my armchair by the fire. He had evidently been waiting for my return, clad in his dressing-gown and slippers and in a most awkward position in that uncomfortable chair.

I perceived a neat pile of post upon my desk (several telegrams of which had been opened to see if they were either interesting or urgent), along with a modest box of my favourite cigars and a new edition of the _Lancet_. No accompanying note, nor was one needed.

"Brain without a heart, indeed," I chuckled softly as I went to find him a blanket.


	149. Bowl

Not in the sweetest of tempers as a result of an early summer thunderstorm waking me one morning in 1894, I found Holmes sprawled in the chair in which I had left him last night. He growled at me and returned to his before-breakfast pipe as I moved round my packing-cases toward the table.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and removed the lid of the sugar-bowl to retrieve my standard two lumps.

Sherlock Holmes jumped, flinging his pipe across the room when I yelped and shot my chair back from the table.

"What the devil!" I peered cautiously into the bowl.

"I forgot…" muttered he, snatching it from me and taking it to his chemical table. "My apologies, Watson."

I pinched my forehead, remembering what an adventure living in this house was. "Holmes…"

"Well it might be poisonous, Doctor; I had to keep it somewhere!"

"_Poisonous_!? And you put that – _creature_ – in our _sugar-bowl_?!"

"I suppose you have a better suggestion of where to put the thing?" he growled crossly, folding his arms.

As a matter of fact, I _did_; but as it was slightly rude, I shall not here record my response nor his even less sophisticated one.

Another reason why the world shall never be told the repulsive story of the red leech (in our sugar bowl).


	150. Bedroom

_This was supposed to be a Situations with a prompt of "Day," but I couldn't get it into 100 words. (sigh)_

* * *

Inspector Lestrade gawped in amazement as the prisoner he was collecting practically sprang at him, shaking like a palsied man.

"Get me out of 'ere!" he wailed, hiding behind the astonished Yarder as a pale figure stepped from the bedroom. "'E's a madman!"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Holmes, what'd you do to the fellow?"

"Nothing," the detective said flatly, his voice more chilled steel than was typical. "Merely said I would take it as a personal favour if he would attempt to flee, so I could shoot him for trying to escape."

Lestrade noticed the detective was clutching an army-issue revolver as if his very life depended upon it …the call had merely said there'd been a shooting…oh, good Lord…

"'E said 'e was gonna kill me," his cringing prisoner whimpered. "Said if the bloke I shot didn't live then the Doctor wouldn't be the only one to not see another day!"

Lestrade faced the stony consultant. "I wondered why we were told to come here, not the house where it happened," he said sternly.

Holmes blinked impassively and turned to re-enter his bedroom.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"What."

"Would you really have killed him?"

Holmes glanced down at the Doctor's revolver he still clutched. "Perhaps I was not referring to him," he answered hollowly, and shut the door of his bedroom.


	151. Bewilderment

Sherlock Holmes had failed.

Not a failure to deduce and act, but in that his client had engaged him to cover his own crimes, not counting upon the detective discovering the truth.

The investigator slumped morosely in the cab amid a cold drizzle, lost in disgust with humanity but especially its gentlemen, who could stoop to such atrocities against helpless women and then have the audacity to employ the Sherlock Holmes to exonerate him from suspicion.

Despicable, the depths to which a man could sink. What was the _point_? The world would only grow more depraved, and anyone standing against it would fight a losing battle for the rest of time.

The cab stopped. Holmes stepped down, fumbled for his key, mechanically unlocked the door. Realising he was alone, he turned, and perceived the Doctor offering the empty vehicle to a passing young woman carrying a shawl-wrapped toddler and firmly grasping another little one. Watson saw the grateful woman into the cab, then tossed a half-crown to the driver before following his friend into the hall.

The detective felt a smile curve his lips; perhaps there _was_ still hope for humanity.

Holmes clapped his astonished friend on the shoulder with a quiet "Thank you, Watson" before continuing on up the stairs, leaving the poor Doctor staring after him in some bewilderment.


	152. Beside

Sherlock Holmes had been engaged in a particularly annoying (and painful) violin composition for the better part of the afternoon, an improvisation that was faintly reminiscent of rusty nails being raked across a wet window-pane and then driven into my skull.

Having only just finished a case last weekend, the world's only private consulting detective was completely disgruntled to find that Fate had apparently decided that single case was his ration for the week, and he subsequently fell into that irascible bad temper than invariably catapulted him into his blackest depressions.

The weather had taken a turn to rain the last three days, both imprisoning me indoors with a borderline-manic consulting detective and seeing fit to force the ever-present pain dormant in my body to an intense flare-up that put me in no better a temper than my companion.

When, after I evidently had unconsciously added a low gasp or exclamation to my silent grimacing as the throbbing ache flared into a sharp stabbing pain, the violin abruptly ceased its caterwauling and Holmes inquired snidely whether I wouldn't mind taking myself elsewhere if I was going to be "moaning and groaning like that all the evening," my already-stretched patience snapped. I snatched my hat and stick and strode (or rather limped) toward the door, intent on escaping the Bedlam for a few minutes, drizzle or no.

Stung by my friend's cold apathy to all but his own difficulties, my irritation dissipated somewhat when I saw the violin fall unheeded onto the table and his face suddenly twist in an expression of what any other man would admit to being remorse.

His nerves were in even worse shape than mine, I well knew, and therefore I swallowed my resentment and agreed when he timorously asked if I would mind company. He began discoursing eagerly on some opera he had seen advertised in the West End, prattling onward as we exited the flat about the singers, dates and times, and would I like to go with him, etc.

It was not his oblique method of apologising that finally dissolved my annoyance with him; but rather that, as we reached the pavement and started down Baker Street, I saw his eyes flit sharply from my uneven stride to the heavy dinner-time traffic. He then suddenly darted round me to walk on my right side rather than my left, between me and the street – all this without breaking stride or speech.

I smiled finally, for the first time in several hours. It was a mere detail – but there is nothing so telling of character as details, according to a certain wise gentleman I was strolling beside.


	153. Button

One rainy evening Mary and I were preparing for dinner, when I answered a knock to find a drenched consulting detective fidgeting nervously on my stoop.

"My dear Holmes!" I exclaimed. "Whatever are you doing here? Is it a case?"

"Erm…not exactly, no," he muttered, dolefully wringing out his hat and looking dubiously at my wife, who was politely refraining from laughing at his bedraggled appearance. "Good evening, Mrs. Watson."

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," said she, smiling. "Do hang up your coat. I'll just tell Jenny to lay another plate. John, don't let him stand there dripping all over the hall; take him in your study."

"My wallet got snatched by a street urchin," Holmes mumbled as I showed him to the fire. "I've no change, already walked half a mile in this, Mrs. Hudson's visiting a niece, so I'm fending for myself for meals…I do hate imposing upon your family…"

I smiled, clapping him wetly on the shoulder. "My dear fellow, you're the closest thing to family that either of us has, remember? I only wish you'd 'impose' more often."

He pulled a face but soon relaxed in the fire's warmth. After a moment he shot me a sidelong glance, to which I raised a questioning eyebrow.

"D'you suppose while I'm here, your wife could sew on this missing button?"


	154. Bedchamber

_Too many – eight, all heavier than I, all willing to kill, their intent too clear. I knew I had been ambushed, but that helped naught now; if only I had not been foolish enough to come alone!_

_I found myself cornered by three of the thugs and well knew my inglorious end was near; already weakened, shaking on my feet, barely able to breathe from the suffocating pain, I had failed._

_Hopelessly, utterly, completely. Never had I before felt such engulfing anguish and despair. It was over._

_I had lost everything._

_But suddenly the looming figures retreated with sudden wariness, and I realised I was no longer alone – that hand on my shoulder, that could both comfort and strengthen simultaneously, could belong to no one else._

_We needed not his revolver, nor my defensive arts – his mere presence made us both invincible, and we had won before ever we struck a blow._

_We had won._

_--_

Holmes's trembling and distressed murmurs finally subsided and he peacefully curled up under the blankets I had disentangled from him. His breathing calmed and a faint smile upturned his lips; the demon plaguing him had been unconsciously exorcised. Then I silently left, to not compromise his pride were he to waken.

Someday, perhaps, he would discover just how many nights this scenario had transpired in his haunted bedchamber.


	155. Believe

Holmes closed the door and threw himself across the bed grumpily, scowling in my general direction as he lit his pipe.

"You were insufferably rude," said I severely, preparing to go next-door.

"I fail to see how any sensible man can be so wrapped up in ridiculous superstition! That sort of rot I expect from a woman, but not from a _man_ of any intelligence!"

"Superstition has nothing to do with intelligence," I retorted, defending our poor client. "All phobias, including that of triskaidekaphobia, involve completely different areas of the brain than that of logic. You cannot just _think_ your way out of being afraid of something!"

I received only an eye-roll and a cloud of thick smoke for my defense of our hapless client, who had unfortunately chosen the wrong genius to allow at his dinner-table with the other twelve of us.

When asked to rise along with the rest of the guests as one, the detective had blatantly risen alone, to our host's horror, and then proceeded to expound upon the origins of the fear, stating he was going to prove the man's quite common superstition (that the first person rising from a group of thirteen would be dead within the year) completely unfounded.

The year, late 1890.

Regarding that superstition, I am still undecided what to believe.


	156. Bemusedly

Sherlock Holmes fidgeted with his immaculate cuffs for a moment, and then straightened up hastily as the couple approached, after diving through the swarm of well-wishers.

"I'd no idea you had so many friends, Doctor," Holmes said dryly.

"Nor I," Watson breathed ruefully, pulling his handkerchief from his sleeve with the hand not occupied by his wife's. "I think most of them came to see the famous detective rather than us."

Holmes snorted. Scotland Yard had assigned men to keep the press away, but still the crowd had been larger than they anticipated.

"My best wishes for your happiness, Mrs. Watson," Holmes offered gallantly, for he could be as chivalrous as Watson when he so chose – and never _would_ be anything less toward someone his friend loved so dearly.

"Thank you, sir," she replied, blue eyes dancing from her husband to his awkward friend. "Are you not going to claim the privilege of the best man, Mr. Holmes?"

"Erm…must I?"

Mary's smile broadened as the Doctor suddenly coughed. "Certainly not, if you find me so repellant," she replied with a pout.

"No, no, it is not that, Miss Morst – Mrs. Watson," Holmes frantically corrected himself. "It is…merely that your husband has a rather nasty right hook, and I don't care to encroach upon his territory?"

"Ah, go ahead, my dear fellow," Watson said affably. "I don't mind."

The glare he received began to melt the frosting on the wedding cake, but the good Doctor pretended not to notice, merely blinking innocently at his squirming friend.

"But…" the detective gulped, casting a frantic look about and seeing only enthusiastic onlookers, all watching eagerly.

"Well, go on," Watson nudged, grinning.

"Leave him alone, John." Mary laughed and finally took mercy on the poor consultant, eliminating his misery by standing on tip-toe to peck him lightly on the cheek amid a round of applause that made the detective blush a deep scarlet. "Thank you for all you've done, Mr. Holmes. I know we both would have been sorely disappointed had you not been able to come."

"Very," Watson added softly, his eyes glinting as they met his friend's, whereupon the detective visibly relaxed. "Thank you, Holmes. It...means the world to me."

"I would not have missed it, despite my original less-than-gentlemanly attitude," the other returned quietly. "I hope you know that."

Watson nodded. "Still, it is good to hear you say it…I say, where did Mary go?"

Holes blinked, for neither of them had realised the third member of their trio had smiled knowingly and left them alone.

"You know, Doctor…if all women were so remarkable, I might consider marrying, myself," Holmes stated bemusedly.


	157. Break

_Real life is being a pain at the moment; I've taken on a couple freelance jobs that have occupied most of my spare time. My apologies for the lack of activity, but that's the way things go. At least the hectic schedule inspired a sort of double drabblet._

* * *

It was the spring of 1895, and Sherlock Holmes and I had been swamped with work; he with a non-stop string of cases that thrilled and exasperated him, and I with taking over an old friend's medical practice in St. John's Wood, while he was holidaying on the Continent.

In consequence, I had not even _seen_ Holmes for over a week other than the odd moment at breakfast when one of us would rush in, choke down some coffee, and throw a "good-morning" over our shoulders as we hurried out. I invariably was called even in the evenings by patients, for the practice was a large one; and he prowled the city, heaven only knew where, in search of his quarry – and the stress was beginning to toll on us both.

So it was, when I received urgent word from our landlady that my friend had finally pushed himself too far and had collapsed one morning, I immediately postponed my afternoon patients for two hours and hurried back to Baker Street. I rushed through the front door, tossing my hat and dripping coat in the general direction of the hat-stand, and limped up the stairs to Holmes's bedroom.

Empty.

I stood for a moment, blinking in surprise, and then heard the door below slam as only Sherlock Holmes could slam it.

"MRS. HUDSON!" he bellowed as he pounded up the stairs. "IS HE – what the devil, Watson!" This last was exclaimed in a tone of mingled relief and astonishment, as I popped out into the hall. "Are you quite all right?"

"Quite, and you?"

"A little tired," he replied puzzledly, frowning. "But that telegram, saying it was an emergency about you – I had to leave in the middle of the autopsy! What on earth –"

I too was surprised that a similar missive had found its way to him, and worried that it could be some trap laid to catch us both off-guard in our house – but apparently it was a far more prosaic reason. Mrs. Hudson suddenly appeared from the sitting-room, calmly wielding an empty dinner-tray.

"Your luncheon is growing cold, gentlemen," said she serenely, sweeping past us as we gaped at her. "You've not spoken in over a week, and I grow weary of cooking for one; hardly worth the effort."

"Mrs. Hudson…" Holmes breathed in slowly through his nose. "Could you not have found some less…_alarming_ way of getting us back here for a luncheon?"

"I doubt it, considering the fact that only one thing would be sufficient to tear you from your work," she admonished, smiling deviously. "Gentlemen, I believe you both are in need of a break."


	158. Bullets

One day Holmes was in one of his bizarre moods, practicing with his hair-trigger on the wainscoting, when I voiced the question to stop his property destruction.

"Holmes, there have been rumours…"

"Astounding observation, Watson," he drawled, aiming for a knothole.

I ignored him pointedly. "Since I published that first story in the _Strand_, I mean."

"I have always held that your scribbling was targeted toward hero-worshipping women and children."

I scowled. "Rumours about _you and Irene Adler_, Holmes."

He lowered the gun momentarily, staring at me. "Her name is _Norton_, Doctor, and kindly remember she was happily married until her death."

"People are asking what exactly occurred between the two of you."

"Eh?" _Bang_. "She outwitted me; but better than to fall before a less noble adversary. What else is there?"

"Why do you keep her picture on the mantel, then, if you have no feelings toward her?" I asked sensibly.

Holmes's eyes flicked in amusement over to the portrait and then back to me. "Why do you keep General Gordon's over your desk? Are you in love with him, Doctor?" he asked, grinning.

"Certainly not!"

"Well then." He returned complacently to his wainscoting-defacing. "Is it so wrong for a British gentleman to have a heroine rather than a hero? Be a good chap, fetch me another box of bullets?"


	159. Beginning

_Pointless drabble dedicated to Protector of the Grey Fortress, as well as all my friends. You know why; thank you._

* * *

"How can I help you if you refuse to allow me?" I demanded. Instead of countering my outburst, however, to my disappointment Holmes only cast his eyes carpet-ward.

"That is just it, Doctor – you cannot help, and it would save us both pain and embarrassment if you would simply cease the attempt," said he miserably.

Three weeks since I had seen him sleep or eat properly, even move about normally. He refused, true to his promise, to resort to artificial means of countering the black depressions to which his intense nature was prone. I almost wished he could have the infernal drug, if it would bring some life back into his face.

The barely-concealed, desperate pleading in the back of those dead eyes cut straight to my heart. Without thinking, I resorted to the simplest method of comfort, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders tightly.

He stiffened instinctively, but for fewer moments than I would have imagined before sighing, actually leaning into me.

"It will pass, Holmes," I promised, though I was myself doubtful.

An empty sigh into my shoulder. "Will it?"

"It will," I vowed anew. "If I have to murder someone myself to get you a case, I will."

He gave an abrupt bark of laughter, and I knew I'd made progress. Not much, but 'twas a beginning.


	160. Blearily

A dangerous night for people and vehicles, and it had been four hours since he sent word he was lending his medical aid to a horrible accident out in the city.

He was probably in no condition to administer such by this point in the day; I well knew what inclement weather did to him. I was not so tactless as to go after him, but nor was I going to sleep without ascertaining he at least came home.

_Don't wait up for me_, indeed.

The door closed. I counted the stair-treads, refusing to insult him by popping out to make sure he got all the way up them.

When, however, I numbered only _eight_ before the weary steps stopped for longer than six seconds, I changed my mind. I found him half-way up collapsed against the wall, breathing heavily, drenched beyond belief, and reeking of blood and dirty rainwater.

Tired eyes opened as I descended, and he wearily reached up a shaking hand for my help, for once swallowing pride in the face of necessity. That was far more alarming than his obvious exhaustion.

"What would you have done if I hadn't decided to wait up on you?" I growled, allowing him to lean heavily upon me as we ascended.

A faint smile. "I knew you would anyway," he admitted blearily.


	161. Begin

_A line in one of PGF's (as yet unpublished) oneshots inspired this, so many thanks for letting the bunny chew on me for a while:_

* * *

Rain had been drowning the city for over a week, imprisoning his new acquaintance – no, more than that now – indoors, and by this point the poor fellow's bull-pup was about to choke itself on its own lead. He had no desire to be chewed to bits by it, and so had tactfully left it growling about the flat.

More out of whim than plan, in his semi-monthly foray into the local pawnshops (looking for items to aid in his disguises), he espied a handsome leather-bound volume of drivel that was selling for one-third its market value and impulsively added the item to his merchandise.

He returned home, dripping but thoroughly self-pleased; and after dumping the clothing and wigs in the middle of the sitting-room floor rooted through the pile for the buried paper-wrapped package, much to the invalided Doctor's amusement.

"What in the world are you going to do with this?" the latter asked dryly, holding up a beplumed (and obviously antiquated) item of headgear.

"No idea, but it's rather interesting, don't you agree? Where the devil is it…"

"It is _hideous_, that's what it is," the soldier declared.

"I've no intention of making it a indispensable component of my wardrobe, Doctor – ah!" He scrambled gracefully to his feet, holding the parcel aloft.

"And what is that?"

"It's for you," he muttered awkwardly, shoving the package at his new friend before pointedly busying himself about the room.

He could feel the stare of his fellow-lodger's astonishment, and felt his ears begin to burn. He was still rather new at this, and well aware of his clumsiness.

Paper-crinkling caused him to cautiously sneak a peek back over his shoulder, and the fellow's beaming countenance and smile sent a bizarre feeling of warmth through him that banished the chill of a miserably wet afternoon.

"My dear Holmes, this was entirely unnecessary," the Doctor protested, running a finger along the handsome binding.

"Most of that romantic claptrap is," he retorted, though ridiculously pleased by the reaction.

He received a by-now familiar tolerant eye-roll. "I meant your thoughtfulness in getting it, not the book itself."

"Oh…" That was novel. Fascinating. "I thought…you might want something to do if the rain keeps up," he finished somewhat lamely.

"Yes, indeed," the man replied ruefully, casting a sour glance at the dripping windowpanes. "Thank you very much, Holmes."

He squirmed uncomfortably and bobbed his head in a quick nod.

"_Clark_ _Russell_," the Doctor read the spine thoughtfully. "Ever read him?"

"Good heavens, no. Never."

"Nor have I," he replied eagerly, entirely ignoring (or more likely not noticing) the detective's obvious disgust, and curled up in his armchair to begin.


	162. Bandaging

Trapped indoors by a thunderstorm, they'd been restless all morning. Holmes finally settled down with his hair-trigger and began to make a neat row of bullet-holes in the mantelpiece, despite the Doctor's requesting, demanding, and then outright pleading for him to desist.

Receiving only a testy growl, Watson resigned himself to another nerve-shattering afternoon and busied himself about the flat while the gunfire kept time with the thunder, putting away papers and books and making the place more respectable. He wrote a letter (or tried to), sorted the post, and began to take inventory of his medical supplies.

Holmes was on his last half-dozen cartridges when, after a shot that coincided with a monstrous burst of thunder, he heard glass shattering behind him followed by a muffled cry of pain.

"What's the matter?" He peered over his shoulder at the table, where Watson was cradling his left hand close to his chest and reaching for the water decanter.

"Bad timing," the Doctor gasped, losing no time in pouring the water over his hand. "I was holding that phial of Prussic acid…ouch, don't!"

Holmes had taken the injured hand in his own, wincing at the sight of the reddened skin, swollen despite the prompt rinsing. "I startled you," he stated, flushing with guilt.

"Not just you," the Doctor sighed, gingerly flexing the burned fingers. "The thunder…just bad timing all-round. I spilled it everywhere, too."

Holmes was about to lecture him on the idiocy of cleaning the table before his own hand but thought better of it. A surgeon, and a writer, needed the use of his hands, and his poor friend's face was already assuming a mournful expression. He reached into the open bag and removed some cooling ointment, making as if to begin treating the injury.

"I can manage." The Doctor pulled his hand free, glaring in obdurate stubbornness.

Holmes blinked placidly and uncorked the bottle of ointment. "No doubt. Now keep still, do."

Watson muttered under his breath but finally gave in, wincing as the detective began to carefully daub the thick cream over the burn. "Will you – ouch! – now will you stop turning our sitting room into a firing range?" he demanded. "Besides shattering everyone's nerves, you're liable to destroy something badly enough that Mrs. Hudson will throw us out!"

"After seventeen years?"

"And I'm sure the neighbours are no more thrilled about the gunfire than they are about your violin solos at two in the morning…ouch!…Holmes, for pity's sake! It is no wonder you were banned from several of the classes at St. Bart's."

"Just hold _still_," The detective scowled, corking the bottle and unwinding a roll of bandaging.


	163. Behaviour

Mrs. Watson was, as a general rule, the most long-suffering of women.

Even a saint is said to have limits, however; and when the lady returned to find the maid cowering in the dining-room, it was with well-deserved wariness that she entered the apparent battle-field.

A great cloud of noxious smoke swirled past as she opened the door. When it cleared, she perceived both a twinned look of guilt and that the kitchen was, in short, the worst mess she had ever seen. Not with the art of cookery, but with a poisonous-looking assortment of chemicals. A sickly greenish-blue appeared to be the prevailing colour choice, having been spattered all over her husband's rolled-up shirtsleeves and dripped over the side of a saucepan upon the stove.

"He told me I could use the kitchen, I swear!" Mr. Holmes immediately declared, high-pitchedly frantic. Thin blaming fingers pointed at her husband, who merely snorted and then sent his wife that familiar pleading look no woman would have had the heart to resist.

She merely sighed and retreated, wondering if Mrs. Hudson would like company for the rest of the evening. If Mr. Holmes was wreaking havoc in her house and not his own, the logical deduction would be that he had pushed the poor landlady one too many times with his eccentric behaviour.


	164. Bite & Bedlam

This bit of randomness is a double drabble, missing scene from my _Mistake_ story arc, and based on a true experience of my college days. Yeah, don't ask.

* * *

He looked up as Holmes sneaked into the airy sitting-room like a guilty school-boy, carefully avoiding the nurse and her patient and sidling over to him, hands suspiciously hidden.

"What on earth have you got?" Watson asked in amusement, wishing that he could simply get up and see.

Holmes grinned in that I-want-to-hear-you-laugh-again way that had become so familiar in the last week or so, and plopped himself down in the next chair.

"Look," said he, pulling a wriggling object from his pocket. "I found him on the verandah outside."

Watson watched with interest as a slender neck and head emerged cautiously from the smooth shell, before both it and all four legs retreated on the instant, finding itself definitely not in its own habitat.

"What the devil –" he began to chuckle. "Why on earth, Holmes, did you bring a turtle in here?"

The retired detective shrugged genially. "He was in my way. And you haven't been outside in a while, I thought you might like to see some wildlife. If he will cooperate and come out of that blasted shell, that is." Holmes frowned and tapped his knuckles experimentally on the shell, receiving no answer.

He held it up, and before Watson could protest stuck a slender finger into the head-hole.

"OW!"

"Err…yes, Holmes, I believe turtles _do_ bite."

--

Holmes had finished yowling, and Watson had finished laughing, before the nurse noticed the animal slowly working its way across the floor. The detective hastily scooped it up, frowning thoughtfully at it.

"We might as well do something with it," he pondered mischievously.

"As in…?"

Holmes shook for a moment in silent laughter and then bolted from the room after shoving the startled turtle into Watson's hands. He returned momentarily, again avoiding medical personnel, and scooted closer to Watson's bath-chair.

None of the nurses paid undue heed to the childish snickering coming from that corner of the room, well knowing the patient and his bizarre friend by now.

They did, however, some ten minutes later, very much notice a small turtle crawling blissfully about the halls, its shell adorned with a conspicuous pad of bandaging – as if to convince any onlooker that it was a patient and _belonged_ in the sanatorium.

Watson's attending physician passed by a moment later, paused, and picked up the animal with a tolerant sigh. Judging from how carefully his primary patient and the patient's friend were hiding behind a rather large newspaper spread, it took no deduction to see who was responsible for the ridiculous joke.

That Watson chap had better recover soon, before Sherlock Holmes drove the entire sanatorium to change its name to Bedlam.


	165. Bearable

After three hours, Holmes's nerves could take the silence no longer. Settling cautiously in his chair, he clasped his hands nervously.

"Dear fellow, what on earth is wrong?"

Watson glanced up from the mesmerizing fire, affecting amusement. "What, do you mean you cannot read my thoughts from my features in your customary manner?"

"That is just the point, Watson," he replied slowly. "You…haven't shown _anything_ whatsoever, for nearly two hours."

"I'm tired, Holmes, that's all."

"No, it is not. You rarely remain stationary, Doctor, and never without something like a book to occupy your mind."

"I don't feel much like reading."

"Writing, then? Now that it comes to mind, I don't believe I've seen you scribble much lately…" He frowned, suddenly realising this.

Watson's gaze had wandered back to the fire-coals. "I just…don't really want to write any more," he confessed resignedly.

"What?"

"Well, really, Holmes…you hate the stories, and I've no outlet to publish them anyway. There's hardly any point."

Holmes raised a shocked eyebrow. "For yourself at least, surely? And I don't hate them…"

The Doctor sadly waved off the mumbled apology before answering, "It's…not worth it anymore, Holmes, just for myself. I just don't care anymore."

Now worried, the detective rose to clutch the familiarity of his pipe. "Can I do anything?" he asked at last. "If it truly means that much to you, I could read them –"

Watson laughed, a lighter sound than he had heard in hours. "I should never ask that of you. I just…need to take a break for a while, I think." His eyes grew sad, wandering over the many books upon the desk before depressedly returning to the fire.

Holmes chewed thoughtfully on his pipe-stem, his mind ticking like a well-loved timepiece. He was more than accustomed to feeling as if the world might end and that he did not much care if it _did_ – but to see his stalwart friend prey to one of those bleak fits of depression was appalling, and it rattled his very soul's foundations.

"Perhaps we both need one," he suggested suddenly. They had no case at present, and London was quiet. "Suppose we take a short holiday?"

Watson blinked disinterestedly, and then sat up with an exclamation of surprise. "You? Actually wanting to holiday?"

"No, but I think you could do to get away from the city for a few days; you've been killing yourself over those unappreciative people in the clinic," Holmes replied.

"I thought you hated holidaying."

"I do," he agreed shyly, "but then again, I've only ever gone alone, you know. I rather think that this time I might find it more bearable."


	166. Basement

I was reading a colourful account of the Jubilee festivities, relaxing after a long day. Sherlock Holmes seemed to be venting his bored irritation on his Stradivarius, judging from the melancholy melody that seeped from its strings.

"Ah, Watson," he remarked through a stiff jaw, keeping the instrument under his chin. "You returned Toby to Sherman, I take it."

I winced at a particularly grating screech and glanced up. "I thought you had returned him, Holmes."

He paused. "I did nothing with the mongrel…where the devil is he, then?"

With a frown, I set my newspaper aside and went to search for the dog upstairs; if the beast had got hold of my slippers again, I swore I should –

"Watson!" Holmes's voice called, and I hastened down to meet him. He was standing in our bay-window, looking down at the street.

"What is it?"

"It appears Toby somehow got loose this afternoon," he replied, gesturing down with his violin-bow. "Apparently he is quite intently staring at our front railings."

Indeed, the mongrel was complacently looking at our flat's foundation, heedless of the splattering rain.

"What do you suppose he's doing?" I sighed, preparing to go collar a wet dog.

Holmes shrugged. "Perhaps he hears mice?"

"That's absurd, Holmes. He is not a cat, and there are no mice in our basement."

* * *

Yes, for anyone versed in their Disney, this is a possible missing scene from The Great Mouse Detective. partially inspired by my recent acquisition of the DVD and the making of several icons at my LiveJournal, but mostly from _Tristan-the-Dreamer_'s new GMD fanfiction, which can be found under her profile. _Read it,_ do_._


	167. Learning

I'm doing a fifty-sentence table for a LiveJournal community, and one of them spun off into this slightly random and (in my opinion) bizarre little drabbley thing. PGF insisted (glares) that I put it up anyhow because it is (quote) "poetic." So here it is. (stops rambling nervously now)

* * *

A learning experience, Stamford had warned – and it certainly was.

One learned to live peaceably with Memory, and the other slightly less peaceably with a companion.

One learned not to jump at gunshots, and the other that there was no longer reason to fear them.

One learned to enjoy opera; the other, to enjoy it more with a friend.

One learned to accelerate mentally, and the other to slow physically.

One learned to love again, and the other how to support and protect what he did not fully comprehend.

One learned a painful lesson about gullibility; the other, that he could face death peacefully now.

One learned to channel grief by writing, and the other to channel homesickness by reading.

One learned a deeper definition of heartache, and the other how much more painful the emotion was when accented by three years of guilt.

One learned that age was slowing his reflexes; the other, that grief would make him capable of murder.

One learned to tolerate bees, and the other to endure motor-cars.

One learned that his health would not allow returning to post-War practice; the other, that he would not permit his friend to die of a heart-attack after surviving all he had.

And they both learned that Time was a precious gift, and to treasure it like never before.


	168. Talent

**I'm doing another 50sentences prompt table, with different prompts. This was going to be one with the prompt of Talent, but it kind of insisted upon expansion.**

* * *

Their pleasant evening out ended rather gruesomely by witnessing (and, in Watson's case, treating the aftermath of) a bad cab-accident. Upon reaching home post-midnight, the Doctor immediately climbed exhaustedly up to bed.

But Holmes remained; pondering, half-sadly, half-admiringly, upon the frailty of life and the nobility of those who expended their own in prolonging it.

Later that week, after yet another thankless day, Watson returned tired but determined to write his account of Holmes's recent adventure in Ireland. The man himself was whining away at Vivaldi, and only nodded absently upon the Doctor's entrance.

Watson set down his journal, and noticing a crisp paper upon his desktop picked the foolscap up to hold in the firelight.

Clean and elegant, it declared the artist's name without superfluous signature. A simple enough pencil-and-charcoal sketch, but intricate down to minute stitching on the neat lines of a darkly-shaded medical bag; layered details and complicated simplicity – mirroring the personalities of both artist and subject.

He smiled through sudden blurriness and glanced up, but Holmes was apparently engaged in butchering a contemporary music-hall chorus, happily oblivious to all else.

_Art in the blood, indeed_, Watson thought fondly, and carefully placed the sketch inside his journal.

Holmes was quite embarrassed when, next afternoon, some entirely different artwork appeared on the nail where General Gordon's portrait had been.


End file.
